Survival of The Smoothest

I walk into the first bar to my right. It’s packed, but I make my way towards the place to which my body guides me with a mind of its own. I know that at the end of this mob that parts like the Red Sea with every step I take, there’s a beautiful woman who wants to get seduced. A woman who desires sex as much and even more than a man does. And I’m her man tonight. I get to the bartender and nod at him. Without saying a word, he prepares my drink and slides it down the bar. I gulp the shot down. I know she is there. I know she’s staring. I can feel it on my temple. I don’t give her my attention that easily. For one, once they get it, they feel they have accomplished what they wanted. For two, if you give it to her too easily, they will perceive you as weak.

Most women are used to the guy walking up to them and telling them how beautiful they are. Women automatically dismiss these guys as weak and submissive. I know, I know, we’ve seen it in every movie, we have seen it in every love story, in every song, in every poem, in every fantasy ever sold to us.

We were told our whole lives to be the gentleman who tells a woman how beautiful she is from the get-go, to persist and fight for her, to marry her and have kids and this and that and blah, blah, blah, blah. But let me tell you, just in case you haven’t figured it out. It’s all bullshit. Dickney lied to you. Get over it.

I can feel her still staring at me. I know she’s interested, so I skip the opener and go into making a meaningful connection. “Betty Boop called and wants her eyes back.” I say. She breaks a smile. “Oh, you’re actually friendly.” I tease, “All those mean looks are only to hide a good girl inside.” She smiles even broadly.

“What’s your name?” She asks. This is too easy, I tell myself thinking of all the times my heart was broken for not being who I am now.

“Eros.” I say “that would be five dollars, ten for the last name.” I throw in it. She giggles as I have made myself more desirable and hard to get. She inches closer. “That’s an extra fee,” I say with a playful smile as I reach the limit of that joke. She reaches down and places her hand on my knee. At this point, it’s tempting to ask for a kiss, but that’s such a noobie mistake that I would have to kill myself if I committed it at this level of my game. I grabbed her hand, squeezed it and she squeezed back. She, slowly, consented.

“I don’t have much time,” I say. “I have to meet my friends at another bar, but before I go I want to make this visualization exercise my friend taught me. He says it can improve the quality of your life,” I touch my glasses. “the quality of fulfillment.” I touch my glasses again. “and the quality of sex.” I touch my glasses and smile broadly as her eyes glaze over. This. Doesn't. Work. For. Every. Single. Girl. In fact, as you throw yourself into the sea, you will begin to recognize where the dolphins swim and where the sharks hunt.

“Think of a cube in the desert.” I start my routine. “how big is it? Is it solid or transparent? What color is it?” and so I go on repeating the same routine I had used a thousand times before. The same routine that I once condemned as unethical, silly, and misogynistic. The same routine that changed my life. The same routine that took that creepy, scrawny bastard off the hotline phone numbers and into the real world. The same routine that allowed me to make friends and connections that boosted my career to the next level. The same routine that had made me deep connections with all the people I met. Because I truly felt I met them. I truly felt like I knew their desires, their goals, their dreams, their fears, their anxieties, and their passions. I feel connected.

I’m stepping out the bar as I come back to my present self. I look at my hand and there’s a phone number written in red ink. I smirk and pull out my phone to save it before it smears away.

“Eros!!!” Lucid steps out of the Zuber. The LED dildo taped on his head wiggles left and right, front and back as he stumbles and regains balance with every step he takes. He says bye to the driver who has a similar smile mine had when he left me on the sidewalk. Lucid and I meet and shake hands like two fraternity brothers meeting for the first time in years. Girls giggle as they walk past us, some guys frown and call out homophobic slurs, some others laugh and some others were probably raised in a conservative household.

“Did Jesus had a penis?” Lucid shouts. Some conservative guys turn to each other as if it was the first time it crossed their minds that Jesus of Nazarene did have a penis. “The guy did.” He chuckles. “how big you think it was?” He asks with pure curiosity.

“I don’t know.” I answer with a conditioned knot in my stomach. “can we stop talking about deity’s penises?” I plead.

“Technically.” Lucid commence exercising his philosophy degree. Who the hell goes to college to get a philosophy degree? Can’t you go suffer a bit at a third world country? You’ll probably spend the same amount of money, but at least you’d have life on experience. “He was the word made flesh, so he was human, which makes him NOT a deity.” He looks me dead in the eye as the dildo on his head wobbles back and forth.

“Where are the rest of the guys?” I finally swerve out of the conversation.

“They said they were on their way.” He checks his phone to check the group chat. “damn it,” he hisses. “Alabaster went to the wrong address and the other guys are with him. They’re asking for directions.” Lucid dials them while doing his best to keep a smile.

It doesn’t matter how good we’re at the game, that guy, the guy who was bullied, the guy who was ostracized, the guy who was called weird or negatively tagged a nerd, that guy is still in us. For Lucid, the guy inside is the religiously oppressed nerd who knows how to assemble a computer with a rubber band, a paper clip, and a piece of gum. How he does it? I don’t know. It’s a magic trick on its own. And there’re other guys with similar situations who look up to him for guidance, inspiration, and advice. Lucid is their new idol, an idol they pray, emulate and aspire to become. Their true prophet.

Me on the other hand, I was, and still am, more of a super geek. The guy who knew the minute and second of the episode certain line was uttered. The geek with pimples on his nose and a serious case of insecurity that made me perspire like a fat ass in a dry sauna every time I thought of talking to a girl. The geek who sought refuge in religion and the only thing that found was guilt. A lot of guilt. I didn’t have it as bad as Lucid who lost his virginity at age twenty-two, or Alabaster who is twenty-six and still a virgin and has never kissed a woman. Not even his mom.

I did have my first kiss when I was eleven, I lost my virginity before twenty and had several girlfriends, but none of them lasted. I felt the need to ask for more. The need to get better. The need to improve that part of me that would make social interaction so much easier, so much smoother, so much better. I didn’t know where to start. I simply knew that my set of skills was lacking that important component. The component of spicy human interaction. The component of daring to say what I thought without giving a millionth of a fuck what anybody else thought. The component that would set my mind free and my heart into a path of human addiction. A good addiction. Or so I think. Well, all I can say my ancestors would be proud.

“There they are.” Lucid raises his hand and waves frantically. His striped, untuck shirt lifting up just to reveal his abdominal V shape. He didn’t have that a year ago. He was obese and a bit depressed. Not a single shred of light like the one he and his dildo were displaying. This might be an amoral life to the eyes of many. Actually, I stand corrected, is an amoral lifestyle, however is a lifestyle that has probably and most likely saved our lives.

“Are you ready for round two?” I come back to the present. She looks at me with delight and the widest, cutest eyes I’ve seen so far. She grins from ear to ear and we go at it again. We go missionary at first. A bit of the classical touch can go a long way, especially if you’re trying to make her feel she’s the only person, the only woman that matters at that moment. Two hearts beating rhythmically just inches away from each other. Her passionate kisses and the gasps of air are a constant battle, which only adds to the aesthetic of the moment. I push in harder than in round one, I pull slowly and let her feel every cubic inch of my noble companion. She moans and gasps as she shakes with her orgasm. There’s a technique developed by an ancient one. The technique consists of stacking an orgasm on top of the other, so when her next orgasm comes, she feels it more intensely. It’s a never-ending cocktail of pleasure. It’s now known as edging. You must try it.

She scratches my back as if she was having sex for the first time, and not that I’m big, I simply know the spots. Compared to men, women are an entire console of buttons, they’re like a piano if you would. Touch the right key and combine it with another one and you get the delightful melody every man seeks—every straight man at least—the moans, the hisses, the curses, the clapping, the squirting.

I pull her to the edge of the bed and we go butterfly. Perfect timing, my ass was starting to cramp. I caress her breast and rely my weight on her rib cage. Teenage me would’ve worried about her well being, would’ve lost focus, and would’ve come in that instant. But the me now is experienced enough to know that women enjoy the underlaying danger in sex. It’s what truly turns them on. My legs get tired of pushing and pulling, yet still we go Janakurpara for a couple of minutes, come to the height of pure ecstasy, and simply allow our lips to meet without any ego involved. This is a part of sex that was truly deprived of my intellect. The part in which it stops being a carnal act and becomes fully spiritual. We allow the moment to last as long as it may. It lasts.

Next day. We wake up, two total strangers intimately knowing each other.

“You better call me.” She menaces with her entire four eleven in height.

“I will.” I caress her face, pull it in and kiss her.

“Alright.” She smiles and steps out of my condo. I know I won’t see her again and I know that she doesn’t want a relationship, but as odd as women are, being called back after a passionate night, even if they don’t want to see the guy again, makes them feel good and not guilty or bashful about their nature. I pull out my phone and make a reminder of texting her. As soon as I do, a message drops into the group chat. I open it, a picture. A picture of Mars grinning from ear to ear. A woman with dark silky hair lays covered next to him. We have a code to never reveal their faces. In social media, things can go wrong in a post, and the last thing we want is to ruin a damsel’s work or social life because of a night of casual passion.

To be continued...