Bachelor Pad Themes

The look and layout of your bachelor pad when you take a woman home with you, while not a necessary tool of game, can help ease the transition from seduction to sex. There are four main design theme directions a man such as yourself can consider when kitting out a home to best reflect your ladykiller cred.

1. More masculine

Deliberately excising any estrogenic touch from your interior decorating is the way of the man who wants female visitors to know his balls are not for sale. These are the homes of the finance wizard, the international businessman and the nerd. Man caves are usually sharply geometric, monochrome, metallic, hi-fi and, except in the case of the nerd, blessedly free of clutter. Bedroom furniture is either heavy, dark, unadorned mahogany or Scandinavian. Art is minimalist and modern. Sofas are exquisitely uncomfortable, facing enormous flat screen TVs. Top shelf bottles of liquor rest on Sterling Cooper bar caddies. The masculine home is a cold, unforgiving, chillingly beautiful non-interactive space that evokes the warehouse aesthetic of early first person shooters. You are reminded of nothing less than “American Psycho” and chainsaws.

2. More feminine

Adding splashes of femininity to your bachelor pad lets women know you are comfortable living with the energy of the softer sex humming pleasantly in the background. The feminized bachelor pad is the man parlor of the artist, the real estate salesman and the homosexual. Man parlors feature rounded edges, multihued color schemes, mineral or elemental textures, lo-fi vintage sensibility, and whimsically decorative trinkets and baubles of meaninglessness. Bedroom furniture is either antique or avant-garde. Square pillows and cologne-scented candles are everywhere. Paintings of French scenes abound. The feminized man parlor is a warm, aesthetically welcoming interactive space that evokes safety, security and the familiarity of romantic moments in front of the fireplace.

3. More sexual

This is the player’s studio. His den of iniquity. A sexualized bachelor pad, whether masculinized or feminized, is littered with props that testify to a man’s preselection by women and his tomcat lifestyle. Many decorative touches are of the form of “accidental” knick-knacks left lying around — such as old photos of you with pretty girls, a stray earring, two toothbrushes in the bathroom — that send hamsters spinning at full tilt. The sexual overload is contrasted with carefully conspicuous cookbooks and “homey” artifacts that fuel the female predilection to believe there is a domesticated man within the cad just waiting to burst forth with assistance by the right woman. This is the man lounge that inspires one night stands.

4. More mysterious

Here we come to the final destination — and the most difficult to master — in bachelor pad proofing: the man manor. A woman entering the enigma of the man manor is greeted by curios of mysterious beauty and a design sensibility that evokes not so much an aesthetic, but an adventure; a life fully lived. Oddities loom over monstrous bookcases. Souvenirs act as fulcrums for each room’s decorative theme. Tattered manuscripts, not glossy magazines or SWPL weeklies, perch tantalizingly in nooks and crannies. The rooms do not reveal, as much as beg for more to be revealed. A woman, upon entering this alternate manverse, is forced to navigate the novelty, snooping reflecting on what she sees at every turn, robbed of the inertia to sit down immediately and stew in her ASD (anti-slut defenses). She is overwhelmed by curioisty, and a curious woman is shortly a horny woman. Man manors pay only the slightest lip service to design rules, but they are generally spartan in space usage (the better to showcase the quizzical artifacts of unusual heft), boldly colored with an emphasis on the darker hues, moody in affect, and nonconformist. The man designing the man manor assiduously avoids trendiness of any flavor. He does not care for social approval; he only cares about lighting up the neural synapses of his prey.

***

There is no right or wrong way to manage the look of your bachelor pad. Each of the above four themes, properly executed, will redound to a man’s advantage in the bedding of women, and some women will react more favorably to a certain theme depending on her individual aesthetic, station in life and relationship goals. However, one theme provides a bigger boudoir boost than the others. And that is the man manor. Simply put, mystery is the gift that accelerates women to sexual abandon faster, and more reliably, than masculinity, femininity or Quagmire caddishness.

I have not lived in every style of place outlined in this post, but I have known, and know, men who do live in homes representing each of the four major design philosophies. Without doubt, the best players tend to the man manor theme, sprinkled with props indicating female preselection. The biggest player I have ever known — a man whose count possibly numbers in the thousands — had a living space that could double as a museum.

Charred oak was the construction medium of his coffee table and bookcases, which were filled with travel guides, dog-eared classics of literature and lewd photography books. A cracked and gouged writing desk he claimed was one used by Edgar Allan Poe sat in his bedroom, at the end of a four poster king-sized monstrosity covered with mosquito netting. A full body female mannequin wearing a safari outfit and pearls occupied a corner of the living room. She looked on the proceedings with an expression of smug disdain. A stuffed rattlesnake reared back, coiled and angry, under a glass case.

A shelf full of dusty old baseballs supposedly gleaned from major sporting events and autographed by famous players peered out from small glass containers. (I say supposedly because I had suspicion that some of the autographs were added after the point of sale.) A crocodile head was etched with dripped wax from a giant gothic candle on its snout. A reading stand — much like the one you might see holding a Bible in a church — propped open a leather-bound notebook with scribblings in Arabic, a small bottle of india ink at its side. He claimed it was a compendium of love poems written to him by a former lover who died young. A very realistic and very creepy Hollywood quality face mask acted as a bookend. A surfboard with a shark bite-shaped chunk missing from it leaned against another corner. A black cat (real one!) with piercing green eyes sat at the edge of a banal out-of-place microfiber couch, surveying his playground.

The overall impression is that one had entered the abode of Ernest Hemingway merged with Andy Warhol.

But the coup de grace was the white wedding dress (sans train) and dark purple tuxedo displayed on mesh wire torsos in a hallway leading to the bathroom. “A love story gone tragically wrong,” he would explain. In fact, he had a story for everything in his place, and it was a rare girl who didn’t feel impelled to satisfy her curiosity. I’m convinced his digs were such extreme chick crack, that half his game was opening the front door and letting girls have a look see.

How much of his stuff was authentic, or how many of his stories true, I can’t say. Likely, most of it was BS. But what does it matter whether he traveled the world collecting strange mementos and memories or he traveled to a SWPL store two miles away to buy his stories at exorbitant prices? Girls ate it up just the same. He put effort into learning and retelling his stories, true or not, and that made girls happy, which made them want to have sex and fall in love, which made him happy. And isn’t that the essence of game?

Once you’ve entranced a woman with your living room, proceed to the bedroom finishing move; the final mysterious conceit that will cause her hamster to run straight to her vagina and start nibbling on her labia.

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More Science Confirming Game Concepts: Long-Term Relationships Can Bring Out The Worst In Couples

Digging through the archives of the Chateau Heartiste library, we find a post about the hazards of LTRs and marriage.

Now you can’t do anything without her, and she you. In the beginning, this is a necessary process to build the level of trust and bonding that distinguishes the LTR from any run of the mill fling. But it morphs into a hermetic pair-bond cocoon, a soft escapable prison that shields from the outside world more than it protects. Increasingly consanguineous, the LTR alienates friends and slackens ambitions.

Scary stuff. Science has something to say about the deleterious effects of marriage on the female body, as well:

•Women in their teens and early 20s who continued to date but didn’t cohabitate gained an average of 15 pounds over five years; their male counterparts added about 24 pounds.

•Newly married women in that age group packed on 24 pounds in five years; newly married men gained 30 pounds.

That degree of gain wasn’t seen in couples who were living together but not married. Women gained 3 pounds more than their single peers — 18 pounds — and men gained 24 pounds.

When you see photos of the groom stuffing the bride’s mouth full of wedding cake as she licks down every last ounce of sloppy creamed filling, you may as well be watching the groom disposing of his sex and love life down her maw. But as we all know, men get very, very stupid about marrying the first semi-decent pussy who comes along.

The latest from the scientific front presents more CH-confirming evidence that LTRs and marriage have negative consequences for their practitioners.

For better or for worse, in sickness and in health – there’s a long line of research that associates marriage with reducing unhealthy habits such as smoking, and promoting better health habits such as regular checkups. However, new research is emerging that suggests married straight couples and cohabiting gay and lesbian couples in long-term intimate relationships may pick up each other’s unhealthy habits as well. […]

Corinne Reczek, a UC assistant professor of sociology, reports three distinct findings into how unhealthy habits were promoted through these long-term, intimate relationships: through the direct bad influence of one partner, through health habit synchronicity and through the notion of personal responsibility.

Reczek reports that gay, lesbian and straight couples all described the “bad influence” theme, while in straight partnerships, men were nearly always viewed as the “bad influence.” [ed: there go women again, abdicating all reason and accountability.]

[…] “Third, respondents utilized a discourse of personal responsibility to describe how even when they observe their partner partaking in an unhealthy habit, they do not attempt to change the habit, indicating that they were complicit in sustaining their partner’s unhealthy habits. The final theme was described primarily by straight men and women,” says Reczek.

So if your partner has unhealthy habits, (smoking, drinking to excess, overeating, underexercising, staying up late to watch Modern Family recordings or Jon Stewart smugly sing to the SWPL choir), you will likely pick up those bad habits. And thus we see how the fat acceptance movement gets its steam — osmotic inevitability. (In related news, according to the Red Cross, there are more obese than there are hungry in the world. We’ve entered the era of globulization.)

Of particular interest in the above study is the evidence that women, and presumably their lapdog betabitchboys, placed the blame for being a bad influence squarely on the men’s shoulders. It’s obvious to those in the know that this blame-shifting is complete bullshit, since (just to pick an easily discernible example at random) there are innumerable couples where the woman has gotten fat while the man stayed slim. Nothing will kill a man’s desire to please his woman in every way faster than the disfigurement of her body caused by bloating up from bellying up to the buffet.

Is there an enterprise in existence where women will blame themselves for something bad they did? To ask the question is to laugh at female absurdity. The rationalization hamster is a cosmic force on par with dark matter; you can’t see the little bugger, but goddamn is he everywhere, redirecting galactic phenomena at will.

Also interesting is the last line quoted above from the study. Partners are complicit in sustaining their SO’s bad habits because they don’t call them out on it. I think we can figure out who is most responsible for this dereliction of duty: sackless beta males who are afraid of the divorce raping and/or sex withholding they will assuredly receive if they displease their queen sovereigns by timidly mentioning in squeaky-voiced passing their increasing girth. Women, for their part, don’t attempt to change their partners’ bad habits for a different reason: they don’t have a clue how to articulate what is wrong with their beta boyfriends and hubbies.

This post, and others like it, is a helpful reminder to the “marriage is best” crowd that marriage — and, similarly, LTRs — hold special dangers for the man who allows himself to become ensnared. An LTR is a beautiful thing with the right woman and undertaken with the right alpha attitude, but it isn’t a panacea for all psychological, emotional or sexual needs, and it isn’t without its own problems that men who serially date don’t experience. When you commit to a woman with the intent of remaining monogamous, you acquire new obstacles to navigate and problems to avoid. Failure to recognize those LTR-inherent deficiencies and counteract them will lead to exile in betaville, where begging for blowjobs once per year and praying you don’t get reamed in court if she gets bored become part of the wonderful fabric of life.

As with everything you venture to explore, do it with your eyes open. Otherwise, you may as well hand your decision-making process over to a committee of cog-molding industrialists and ball-chopping feminists.

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Wrapped Around His Finger

We talk a lot about alpha males here, and their mysterious pull on women. We discuss their attributes, their attitude and their game, and how and why it works to vibrate vaginas all across the land. But sometimes the weight of theory can deaden the senses, and it helps to have a real-life, flesh and blood exemplar of alphaness staring you in the face to bring that theory down to solid earth, where you can see and hear it all from your personal first-person view. In that spirit, I will relay a moment in time from my life so that you can feel like you’re stepping in my shoes and witnessing it yourself.

I was at a large social event (the more astute readers will be able to figure out the type of event from details in this post) and was seated at a table with mostly women — all in their mid to late 20s — and a couple of men. As a keen observer of sexual dynamics, the rapport between one of the men and his girlfriend was especially entertaining to me.

She was completely enamored of him, leaning against him, smiling at him (and when she wasn’t smiling she was “smizing” at him  — smiling with her eyes), touching him on his hands and arms and shoulders and thighs, blushing periodically when he deigned to smirk at her (which wasn’t often), flattering him, imperceptibly nudging her chair closer to his, nuzzling into his man-nook where pec meets armpit, gazing up at his face (and I do mean UP, as she would deliberately arch her back and neck so that her body was compressed in the vertical and he was looming over the top of her head), defending him when her girl friends were challenging him on something he said, and, best of all, apologizing profusely for imagined slights that she believed she had accidentally committed against him. When she spoke, either to him or to others in his company, she sounded, not to put too fine a point on it, like a ditz. Yes, she was doing all this in front of about ten people, some total strangers to her.

For his part, he was behaving and speaking in almost the exact opposite manner as his girlfriend. He would sit straight, neither leaning away nor into her, would speak in a heavy and deep monotone, would rarely smile (and when he did it was always a half-assed “yeah i’m the douchebag you wish you were” effort), would only touch her when he was reaching around to grab her ass for a makeout, seemed oblivious to her cloying flattery, effected an air of imperturbable indifference, showed little outward signs of affection for her except for the one time I caught sight of them absconding to what they thought was a private location, occasionally spoke ill of her even to the point of insulting her, never complimented her, looked straight ahead in the middle distance when she complimented him, never said “thank you” or “excuse me”, never excused or “forgave” her when she was excessively apologizing to him (in fact, he seemed to relish her clumsy supplication), would sometimes insult her friends right in front of her, would often command (not ask) her to get him a drink, and, best of all, flirted with other hot girls at the table.

There was a telling moment of the nature of their relationship early in the night. She was giddy and excitable as she laughed with her girlfriends and some new arrivals, when it suddenly dawned on her that she had neglected to promptly introduce her boyfriend to everyone. (And by promptly, I mean not more than three seconds had passed before she caught herself in this supposed irredeemable faux pas.) Red-faced, she humbly corrected herself.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” she pleaded as she looked at him. “I’m so sorry! So sorry! I forgot to introduce you to everyone! Everyone, this is [name], my boyfriend.” Now semi-whispering to him, “Sorry, baby! Sorry.”

His facial expression remained unmoved. A powerful pause heightened the awkwardness before he answered. “Don’t worry about it. I got it.” He then nods in the direction of the others.

His vocal tone and expression are important here. It was not consolingly beta, where the pitch rises on “worry” and descends to a loving shoulder rub on an elongated “I got it”, as his eyes crinkle at the corners in reassurance. Nope, it was more like a staccato, Draper-esque, punch to the face, flatly delivered, emotionless except for a hint of contempt, which was noticeable in the way he commandeered the drama by addressing the table himself and refusing to glance at her as she effused with apologia.

I watched admiringly. The other man at the table glanced at his feet nervously. The girls were a mix of hatred and arousal.

This guy was the flawless encapsulation of the jerk. The dick. The narcissistic prick. All together now…

The Asshole Hot Chicks Love.

And she? She was the hot chick who loves an asshole. Every mannerism, word and body shift — right down to the tiniest facial tic — telegraphed her absolute devotion — her ADDICTION — to her jerk boyfriend.

Now some of you will parry with the usual gripes. But before you do, know the following:

She graduated from a top-tier Ivy. Her degree is in a numbers-related field. She is hot, a hard 8.5. Her body is worthy of a sacrificial fuckening. According to my sources, when she isn’t with her alpha-squared asshole boyfriend, she is one of the smartest, most put-together and confident girls in a room. The ditz act, apparently, only blossoms in his presence. Her girl friends are jealous of her even though they hate what she becomes when she’s with him. And the blow that I know will sting beta males the worst? She COULD have almost any man she wanted — good men, solid company men, respectable men of their communities — but she chooses to be with an arrogant renegade.

And him? Decent looking. Easy on the eyes, I suppose most women would say. Certainly not Hollywood looks. Not a big or muscular guy. Lean to the point of skinny. Edgy, downscale style. (She showed up at this event poured into an exquisite cocktail dress. He arrived late with her, wearing frayed designer jeans and an untucked tight flannel shirt over a white Hanes wifebeater that was showing through the top. Most of the other men were wearing suits.) He was short. Yes, he might have been a half inch shorter than his gf. Unemployed.

You read that right. He lost his [redacted] industry job six months ago and was living off her earnings. He has money, but he doesn’t spend it because, as he explained to me, he’s saving it for a few years of fun-time travel. Whether he intends her to go with him or not is left to interpretation.

None of this is new to me. I’ve met guys like him before. I’ve *been* that guy plenty of times, when the mood strikes. I’m intimately familiar with the adoring love copping such a grotesque asshole alpha attitude inspires in women. There is no escaping that this is a reality of female sexual nature, a powerfully harsh reality that sends shockwaves of disbelief and disillusion through the more tenderhearted of the inexperienced idealists. Some learn from what they see behind the curtain; others cocoon further into self-medicating platitudes.

And what about the spectators? What did the men and women in attendance think of him, both those who knew and knew of him? From what I could glean, the men were largely neutral. Some hated him (usually the biggest betas with overbearing girlfriends), some liked him (maybe not surprising, the alphas and the omegas were affable toward him), and most were willing to throw him under the bus in furtive conversation at the behest of their gossipy girlfriends.

More pertinently, how did the women — all of them well-educated urbanite professionals — feel about him? In his company, they were girlish and borderline shy, or self-conscious. Behind his back, they were disparaging, complaining bitterly of the way he treats his girlfriend (bitterness was correlated with their closeness to her), and constantly — I mean CONSTANTLY — working to install his ouster. I saw one girl drag her away so that she could introduce her to a man who, unknown to her at the time, was a handsome gay man.

If you held any doubts that girl friends will not conspire against you should they find you unacceptable boyfriend material for their friend, well… you can put those doubts to rest now.

Of course, none of their efforts worked in the least. He had been dating his girlfriend for many years, during which time he has cheated on her for months at a stretch with more than one woman. His cheating, his aloof treatment of her, her friends’ dispproval… none of it seemed to have dampened her love for him. Or her loyalty to him, for as I learned from a trusted source, she never, not once in the sumptuous prime of her life when she had every excuse and rationale to do so, cheated on him.

Remember that the next time you hear of some whiny ho cheating on her beta boyfriend, and rationalizing it by blaming it all on him.

The professed hate the girls had for this asshole boyfriend of one of their friends, and the wet glower in their eyes when they spoke of him, belied a primitive attraction. It was not the impassioned hate a man has for another man who has humiliated him, or the withering hate a woman has for a weak ex-lover who now repulses her. When I heard them talk about him, their words ostensibly carried a payload of anger and disgust, but it was a gossamer veneer; to a hardened pro of female codespeak like myself, the dulcet harmonies of untamed curiosity sent their words aloft on a stanza of gina tingles. Listen closely, and you can hear the subliminal poetry asserting itself — “ode to why oh why do i hate this guy but feel like i do?”

Interestingly, there was one girl, a looker in every way and smart as tacks to boot, whose loathing for the asshole boyfriend of her best friend seemed the most genuine. I say “seemed”, because it may merely be the case that she was best at concealing her shameful intrigue. Whatever the true motivation, I found her responses to him the most cutting. She was clearly aiming for the throat, and her eyes pierced like laser beams, her voice cold and still as sheet ice. Lesser men would have suffered a grievous wound from her attacks, for her barbs were sharp and subtle enough to avoid triggering a hen phalanx of social diplomacy. But the asshole deflected her thrusts without breaking a sweat. In the smarts department, he was outclassed, but in the attitude department he had her number.

Why did I find this dynamic the most interesting? Background helps. She was dating a considerably older man who was not present at this event, an alpha male in his own right, for many years. Perhaps, intimate familiarity with her own alpha braces her for the abyss that always looms ominously to eternally capture a woman’s heart should she become completely unguarded. She sees in the asshole boyfriend of her friend the power the alpha male has over all female sense and reason, and she wants to put him on notice. It is her redemption.

More interesting, she alone among all the girl friends never consoled her smitten friend, never attempted to introduce her to new men, and never assuaged her ego by telling her she could do better. She was smart enough to know those kinds of interventions have no effect and, worse, usually result in the opposite of what was intended. There’s an unwritten rule among very high-value women who date alpha males — the hate is for show. No woman would seriously give up the pleasure she gets from dating the alpha jerks she loves. They’d all poach each other’s boyfriends given half the chance, and they know it.

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The Biggest Difference Between Old Men And Old Women

UPDATE

John Cleese’s 31-year younger girlfriend helps pay for his ex-wife’s alimony.

That, my friends, is the power of alpha maledom.

Money quote:

“[Cleese’s girlfriend] told me she could sell ashtrays to non-smokers. She looks nice and she is, in the best sense of the word, a sensible and extremely vibrant English lady. Thank God, he’s not with another American.”

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The Crux Of The Matter

Maxim #1(a)(2): Men want to be turned on by their women. Women want to be proud of their men.

What do I mean by proud? It doesn’t necessarily mean she’s proud of your career success. It could mean something as simple and endearing as installing a mantle over her fireplace, so that when her girl friends come over for a party and ask about the fantastic looking mantle, she can tell them, with no uncertain amount of swelling pride, that her boyfriend did it. For her.

As for you women… well, men want you to look good. Period. That means:

Be hot.
Be thin.
Be young.

Now you can’t do anything about your age or your genetically endowed looks, but you can do something about staying slim and keeping yourself looking as good as possible by adopting beneficial lifestyle habits and, if necessary, “getting some work done”.

If you ask me, I think women actually have it tougher keeping their partner attracted to them over the long run.

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Chase, Interrupted

My slim cut extra medium T-shirt felt sloppy on me, sitting across the table from his dark blue suit. A blood red tie slashed his white shirt down the middle, and he caressed the lip of his glass of whiskey with a manicured index finger that hasn’t seen manual labor since high school.

“You sound like you’re ready to call it quits,” he mused.

“Well, now I wouldn’t go that far.”

“How long you been together?”

I stuttered on the number. “Hm… nine months, year. Somewhere around there.”

“That’s love.”

“Yeah, she’s all right.”

He took a slow sip and eyed through the back of his glass a young blonde with an aggressively arched torso sitting at the bar. “Marriage?”

“Ha. Funny. I’m just enjoying it in its pristine condition at the moment. What about you? Any slowing down?”

“I didn’t know this was a race.”

“You know what I mean. How much longer can you play the field?”

“How much longer can you go on breathing? You see the absurdity in your question.” He flicked a mosquito off his arm sleeve. The rooftop was buzzing with liquored career girls and blues music trapped in humidity.

I exhaled words through my lips, “I admit there are times… a lot of times… when I miss the chase.”

“You can still have that.”

“No, not really. Technically, you can. But in reality the feeling is never the same.”

He leaned forward and crinkled his brow. “How so?”

“There’s no freedom in cheating. At least, not the sort of freedom that makes your brain feel like it’s on helium. Cheating is exciting, but no matter how you compartmentalize it, you’ll always have to deal with that tiny pang of guilt.”

“Sure, but it’s worth it when you consider the alternative.” He shivered from an invisible north wind. “Monogamy.”

“There’s more to it than guilt, which was never much of a disincentive for me, anyway. When you know you always have that fallback lover, that girl who will be there at home, waiting for you, the victories taste less sweet. Where’s the challenge? A well executed seduction as a free man is a very different experience than one as a taken man. Failure means more when you’re single, and so success means more as well.”

“Beautiful words. But your virtue won’t last. You’ll be back. I know you.”

He pressed forward over the table once again, and for the first time that night his tie went askew.

I studied my mischievous friend waiting for me to invite him to speak. “What?”

“You remember Adele? That girl you took back to her place from this very bar… twice… for one night stands?”

“Adele. Yeah,” I reflected.

“She had a nice place, didn’t she? Big bay window in her bedroom. You were about to fuck her, condomless, in the deep of the night, and right before penetration you looked down and admired her thatch of honey blonde pubic hair. Shards of streetlamp light shone through the window and illuminated her pubes. Her tuft glittered, you said. You were surprised that her rug was as brightly blonde as her hair.”

“All natural, too. She was a Vikingess.”

“Mmm, hm. The optical geometry of that night is scorched forever on your retinas. In old age, you’ll forget everything but moments like that. You’ll forget your kids’ names but you’ll recall with perfect clarity the night of that dance of streetlight, bed, and pubes. And the others like it.”

“I know where you’re going with this.”

His lip curled. “Do you?”

“She had a boyfriend. Which I found out about later. I met him, briefly. Shook his hand and everything just to make her uncomfortable. She didn’t know if I was crazy enough to mention our tryst. Of course, I didn’t. But I loved that spectacle. It’s not often one gets a chance to smother a woman so thoroughly with her clandestine evil.”

“Yes, there was that, but that’s not what I was going to say.”

“Oh?”

“What does it feel like, knowing that should you follow your goodness to its conclusion, you will never again enjoy the discovery of new pubic canopies? To forever shutter the windows on that bay window of your adventurer’s soul?”

“Poetic. But I love the pubes of the girl I’m with now.”

“One pube color, until you die.” With that, he and his sharp dark suit rose and glided to the bar blonde with the bitchy back. I could overhear their conversation.

You have excellent posture. Very masculine. I don’t think I’ve seen marine sergeants sit as ramrod straight as you.
Thanks. I try not to slouch.
Posture like that could be intimidating to some men. Let me guess, you love the power rush.
Doesn’t seem to be a problem for you.
I’m quaking in my boots.

I finished my drink and watched a cocktail napkin slide from one hand to another. Old-fashioned and personal. That was his style.

At home, a scribbled note greeted me on the coffee table. “I bought you OJ. Feel better!”

I fumbled around my jeans pocket, found what I was looking for, and sent a text.

interesting… meeting you, general sherman. I might call you.

I burned the tattered tissue paper in my hand with a lighter and mixed myself a screwdriver. My thumb hovered over the delete button.

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Comment Of The Week

KarlK writes:

[Harry] Caray was a notorious pussy pounder. One rumor has it that he lost the St. Louis cardinals announcing job because he was banging the wife of Augie Busch.

Imagine the scene….”Holy Cow! This cock’s for you…”

Your working assumption should always be that any high status man is ploughing through pussy like yoke oxen on a water-logged subcontinental delta. Maybe then there will be less hero worship by Joe Six-pack.

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