Survival of the Smoothest

The bed squeaks are drowned by the moans and hisses of a passionate night. What made us human stayed out of the room as we let our most primate instincts take over us. We came into the room ripping our clothes off and catching our breaths as we clumsily made our way to the bed. And it was in this moment, this crucial moment to my performance, in which I decided to pull away and apply the brakes. She seemed confused and crazed altogether. She lunged for more. I was the fire, and she was the moth.

I kept pushing and pulling, speaking the language women speak. The language of waves. That language that laps in their most private part like lapping waves into the sandy beach, going away and reaching further and further every time it comes back. I slammed her against the wall and choked her just enough to shoot her adrenaline to the roof. I pushed her to bed and instead of penetrating her, I went on to kiss her body. This is the hardest part for a man in bed, restrain the animal within. Restrain that animal that leads most of our lives if not the entirety of it through a constant search of this pleasure. The pleasure of sex. Love is something for women to chase. Us, men, we want power, status and sex. Having one is great, having all of them makes us gods.

I went on to wave towards her breasts, pulling and pushing closer and closer until the energy led me to suck on her delicate pink nipples. She moaned in pleasure and arched her back. She, without words, asked for more and more. I squeezed her ass and pulled her panties down ever so slowly. What I did with my tongue to her flower can be imaged as a guitarist hitting a two-minute solo. She pulled my hair every time I stroke the right cord.

Her turn came around. She pulled my boxers down. No teeth, no hair, no gag reflex. It was perfect. That was the scene every man desires every month, every week, every day, every hour, every minute. That scene, that scene was thirty minutes ago, and now, she’s begging for me to stop, but she doesn’t mean it. The quantity of orgasms she’s having compliments the quality of them. She arcs her back as my thigs clap against her ass with every slide of penetration I provide her with. I turn her around and pull on her hair just like I had done at the bar. Just the way I had anchored her back then. I whispered just the way I had done when I invaded her mind. I teased her with the same pet name I call every single one of my girls, but make her feel like it’s hers and hers alone. I make her feel what she’s been craving since she was a teen. Since she first wet her panties, since she first felt the impulse of giving in to her lowest instincts, but sadly suppressed it for reasons that make me sick. And the thing is, not only women suffer this suppression, also men. And that’s why I found myself in the obligation to become Eros Casanova and this is my story.

I give her the signal. She turns and quickly gives me head. I choose not to come, but instead to scatter the feeling through my entire body. After a few more minutes I deem it enough. I culminate my night and I feel like simply laying in bed. This is the hard part for most men. Cuddle with a woman after sex that is. It’s almost biological, we don’t want to see women after we have achieved our main objective, but as the player of the game, I must make her feel special. Even if it is for a few minutes. Luckily, this one seems to be still entranced with the symphony of pleasure she just had. It was probably the first time a man had made her cum more than once. I try to separate myself from the feeling of pushing her aside and simply stare at the ceiling, sigh and replay how the night went. How it started and how it came to this moment.

I just had finished working on a project. A work commissioned by Varner Cuhs to write the script of a romantic novel. It was a good story, but the public demands some censorship that I have to bear like a stone attached to my neck. A bunch of bullshit, but bullshit that pays good.

I save the project, back it up, send it to VC, check the clock and smile at the realization that the time is about to come. I jump off my chair and get into the shower. The writer's façade flushes away with every drop of cold rain. The Dr. Squatch pine-scented soap is my favorite and basically my signature smell at this point. Whenever a girl smells pine, they’ll think about me. In fact, some long-term mention that every now and again.

“I was walking through this forest and thought of you.” They giggle. “I had to masturbate.” They conclude and incite me to fuck them wherever we stood. At a garage, the beach, a park, an airplane, the restroom of a bar, behind an alley, in a police car, the rooftop of a hotel and countless other places that seemed the same to me, but made the moment more memorable for them. Girls are fucking weird. But we love them. And that very same love is the reason we do what we do. Crazy shit. For Christ sake, we’ve gone to war over a woman.

Done with the shower I order a Zuber and text my disciples to meet me there. I told them that tonight was initiation night and they were going to be with the best.

“Peacock the best you can.” I texted in the group chat. “put the extreme version of yourself out there and give women something to break the ice with. Lucid, wear the dildo as a hat. We’re going to Deep Ellum anyways.”

“DEEP ELLUM!” Lucid shouts, or so I read it. Deep Ellum was Lucid’s favorite place to pick up chicks. He liked them gothic, artistic, and a bit into the masochistic side. Then again, most girls are masochistic. Trust me. Pain and pleasure have a blurry line in that wicked mind of theirs. I put on my loose, long sleeve, gray shirt with a long V-neck that reveals half my chest. I put on six bracelets on my left arm and one thumb ring on my right. I roll the sleeves up and reveal my sleeve tattoos. Put on my ripped jeans and leather boots. I was about to pick my leather jacket when I realized it was pretty nice outside. Hat and glasses will do it tonight.

My Zuber arrives and we make small talk. Inevitably, my line of work gets into the conversation, but I pivot so we get to talk about something more exciting. The man smiled broadly as he heard my recounts on how to seduce a woman. He looked in his mid-thirties from the passenger angle, but he could be younger. I keep telling him how to break the ice, create interest, and when to know if it is okay to ask for a kiss. He seemed to memorize everything I said.

We go into Main and I ask him to drop me off, I was in hurry. He pleaded me to stay a bit longer for him to know the next part. I told him I had to go, but left the information of a webinar I’m delivering on Monday. He took it with a spark in his eyes. And just like that, I had made a thousand dollars.

No, I don’t feel bad for charging men that much money for their freedom. Yes, I said it, freedom. We live in a strange and confusing era, yet, it’s the best era for men to be men. To go out and enjoy the pleasures of life. To go out and provide intellectual women with the sexual pleasure they’ve been craving since they first wet their panties. To provide freedom for the woman who grew up in a conservative family who obliged her to suppress her femininity. To provide happiness, pleasure, and joy for one night and deliver them from the chaotic life they live.

We don’t live in times of marriage anymore and this is the best time to simply get laid and live on. With that been said, let them know that. Don’t pretend to be her friend, don’t pretend to be her boyfriend. Tell her what you want. If she walks away, congrats, you made an available woman for someone who truly wants her. If she doesn’t walk away and gives you a devilish smile insinuating that that’s exactly what she wants, congrats, you’re her man for that night.

My Zuber takes off and I can see the guy turning his neck. I chuckle and use the momentum to draw a smile of confidence on my face. As soon as I do that, I lower my glasses to conceal my pupils from those ladies who are turning their heads towards me. I enjoy every bit of it. The heard of girls eyeing me from head to toe, wishing to be my jeans, the angry alpha male who pulls his girls closer because he can sense danger approaching, and the gay guy who undresses me every time I walk down that sidewalk. He’s a cool guy. Really chill, yet, horny as hell. I once set him up with a friend. My friend didn’t walk for three days.