Mindfuckers and the fucked: choose your side

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Rachel had a boyfriend back in her native land who’d call her everyday, but since women in foreign lands get lonelier or feel free to do as they really wished all along without prying eyes, she started seeing me. She’d feel guilty over it, but I’d reassure her that there were all types of love, hers for him was rather the platonic kind, as the one she had for me was carnal. “At one point, you may have been passionately involved with that cock-sucker, but you’re no longer his, you’re mine now” he told her.

She liked hearing him speak that way to her, made a face like she wasn’t pleased hearing it and getting smacked on the spot only to turn the other cheek, lay down on the floor and spread herself open. They had met under strange circumstances. He had placed an add on an adult website, she had answered him and almost instantly decided to run to his encounter. He did not disappoint. As soon as the door to Rachel’s apartment was open, he stormed in and made it his place. She did the dishes, the cleaning, the bed, all the while he’d watch from a distance, approach her at times and just ravish her. Or let her be. Now she worried about the man she had left behind, a good man, who had given her everything, not a good-for-nothing man who took from her as much as he could and gave little back, if anything. Except she only succeeded in making herself miserable, because she continued to be by my side; she could have it my way or go and be this other man.
She chose to be a little sweet pussy girl who’d listen to my every command and orders her around in front of people. She’d make me enough money online, no need to physically prostitute her, just enjoy her company and mount a show for our subscribers throughout the day. They’d pay all-access subscriptions upwards of $90 a month and we had been certified Platinum (more than a thousand subscribers). Life was good.

Almost as much as I’m into women, I’m into fitness. The way I see it, these hobbies of mine complement each other finely. Yeah, I run, hit the gym, do one thing or the other everyday except Sundays. I wonder if there’s something that we want more than women in our lives that we get to know so little of, if we love sports, we pick teams, alliances and rivalries, poke fun, it’s all part of the same ritual, the pecking order. Women find our obsession over sports and politics almost as confusing as we find them, except we never give things a second look and a woman looking at a thing always sees it for the first time ever. Whatever you’ve done so far for her doesn’t amount to much if you drop the ball today. You shouldn’t go about pleasing her in every way, but don’t neglect her either.
I was right to think that one fundamental pillar to success with women and life, in general, is how fit you’re. It’s imperative that you work out, otherwise you’re always going to be only half full. How great it feels to exercise, hit the showers and then go out for a walk. You feel crystal; whoever has exercised, knows this feeling. You never have a good workout and feel lousy afterwards. You may overeat, feel great about in the moment and then regret it ever happened; you may go home with a complete stranger, and beat yourself up for it in the morning, girls more often than guys. We relate sex to pleasure and self-esteem, it validates our proud manly vision; in a single ejaculatory load, there are enough sperms to fertilize half a continent. You were once a great swimmer and had less than one in one hundred million to make it to the end line first; you did, if you happen to be reading this line, and you aren’t a smart android, you’ve done it. You achieved greatness by getting to the egg first. It’s an unbelievable feat. Whatever you may do in life, you can never top that. Every action, every moment, will be written by actions, words too have healing power, leave a small footprint.
Working out was simple, compared to women. It clicked and ever since I started, I never left it for long. Now, I’m not the fittest man you’ll ever meet, but I’m very strong and proudly so, exercising has changed my physical and mental life. I used to suffer from depression; had all these psychotic episodes, nothing too alarming, reminiscent of bipolar, who knows? What I do know is once I started to exercise all of these ailments vanished or were diminished to a point that no longer could considered chronic. Life in general became more manageable, I handled stress more efficiently, my appetite is in check, I sleep better, am far more virile, a better man. The fact that you can lift your woman up as if she were a feather conveys more masculine core than anything except, perhaps, attitude. I’ve seen far less built types, and they manage to get their hands on sweet honey pots, plant their seed, though overweight, gluttonous types, an unparalleled ambition to make good in life so that not a drop of sweat is sacrificed. They catch big ass trophy wives, since they have the financial resources, and women still subconsciously rank safety as their top priority. Women are addictive to the chemistry of drama whether they admit to it or not. They project and live their repressed versions of themselves, feel the need to latch unto someone stronger, being it man or woman, and surrender to someone else’s sickly twisted imposing role, behave, breath slowly or you’ll faint, you’re about to get roughened-up and fucked till you become cooperative and docile, an obedient pet. You’ll sit where I say you should sit and if I sense the slightest protest, I will smack the last trace of ego out of you. You know I am stronger than you, more powerful, awe-striking. I can lift you with one arm, you shake whenever I come close to you. You breath heavier, your pupils dilate, your watering mouth half open, your hair all wild, sweaty curls golden brown like swaths of dried hay. You can’t be distracted by her imposing figure, her beauty is her most lethal weapon in her artillery, followed closely by her put-downs; the more beautiful a woman, the more aplomb and tact. You keep your eyes on hers, your demeanor says how you feel inside, the mood with which you infect life has a way of spreading. She’s not my slave; she’s an indentured servant.

It’s why they sometimes rather stay with bullies and womanizers, heinous men prototypes. Like all polarities, her goodness craves some bad. Above all, she wants to nurture and have a maternal instinct to preserve, to be the healing entity and let the mantle of her light whisk the roughed thick layers of skin under which we buried our hearts away. She sees herself as his savior, but also she wants to play the submissive role and usually dominant men deal with them rather indifferently, coldly… of course not to the point of neglect, just not taking them too seriously, like an overgrown child. They get confused when you pay them too much attention; use humor to diffuse tense situations and sometimes indifference, if necessary. Have tenderness thrown into the mix as well. She’ll get the message; you’ll come across as the center, the one in control, and you won’t have any self-doubt. If you try and control her, you’ll lose your edge. She knows how to tiptoe around you, she senses your sense of direction, your purpose, your drive, and she’s just beyond herself that she gets to spend some quality time with her man.

The fact is, no man in his right mind will choose the platonic love-affair over the flesh-and-blood love; or the spiritual over the physical. Perhaps you have esoteric leanings, heard all about Buddhist monks who are happy just meditating in monasteries, You don’t want to be her friend, so talking too much is probably unwise, girls got tons of guys around to fulfill their needs to bond and connect, usually those stuck in the Friend Zone, a place no real man wants to find himself in. And you may start as a friend, but you need to follow some ground rules in order to move on from that stage. At a place of work, best to leave it alone; of course, often you run into women who’d want something more than being an acquaintance. I remember this specific type, begging eyes, flashing smiles, open reception upon seeing you; I never took bait, no matter how much I wanted it.
In a workplace environment, it doesn’t work; relationships sooner or later will turn sour and then you find yourself in a sobering, crude reality. You need to know that there are plenty of women out there to be messing around with the place where you earn your bread. Of course, there were exceptions but oh very few, and these never acquired the relationship status.
In some occasions, I’d simply use the routine of “One of us will have to get fired in order for this to work.” In one occasion, this girl did just that. She was on the way out anyway, but made it seem like it had been done to have something to do with me. It worked like magic, egos need little convincing. I fucked her senselessly for seven weeks. It was a fuck-fest marathon. She’d come over on Friday, and we’d stay till Sunday, wearing each other out, leg-up and face against the wall, turn her on all fours, bang her into oblivion, fall asleep for an hour, wake up with a stoned-wall erection and go at it. Seven weeks, no more, no less. It was a glorious experience.
She made me wear my uniform, as she pulled my pants off and went down on me. I’d discipline every chance I got. I’d see her drenched in sweat, fire in her iceberg eyes, she’d fight dirty; girls have been endowed with a razor-tongue, quit incisive and on point remarks, their intuition is sharp as a hawk’s vision, nature’s way of compensating to women for having made them weaker, more emotional, less logical.

And so I wouldn’t question her resolve, how she’d lovingly seize the moment and attack me out of nowhere, a sucker’s punch, arm herself with a kitchen’s knife, wake up with a broken nose. She’d bleed until the stain dried down her nostrils, her lips swollen, that night when you succumb to alcoholic bliss she’d slip out the door and venture into the night for two hours or so. Emilia would pick up a complete stranger and let him have his way with her, then rush home and sleep next to her unsuspecting husband until the moment he’d get up, sobered up and hard, mounting her hard, with or without her consent. Emilia had learnt to keep quiet, to breath and just take him; some nights, she’d have plenty of wine and purge herself for being a sleazy girl until her husband woke up to ravish her, make her his toy, fuck her good, and she’d enjoy it. But most nights she was just bored with the same routine; it had been fun initially, when they began dating, Emilia loved his roughness and the sudden sexual attacks, predatory sometimes. She’ll never hold back, her heart pounding behind the door she tries desperately to close in a frenzy behind her. It was pure adrenaline, younger perhaps and a brutal sexual chemistry that bounded them together. You can always solve in bed; not solve in essence, just come to an understanding. It’s part of building tension, a way to keep their interest piqued.

One rule is, you do not let them get too comfortable around you; you don’t play too nice a guy, in other words.

That other man in her life didn’t have access to her, separated as they were by an ocean, half a continent away, he was now at the mercy of a phone call she may never return. She may not pick up, maybe she’s busy or she’s playing games, whatever the case may be, it’s not a good prospect. It’s never recommended to initiate a call when you’re in this type of relationship because if your significant other decides not to answer, suspicions start to arise. She may be just genuinely busy, or she may want to increase the tension, make him test his resolve, push his buttons. The thing, that girl did not play games; she had said that if I made any noises during the conversation over the phone, she’d bite my dick off. She just wants to go down on me as she talks to her boyfriend, and that’s all I want too, for now. Later on, I’ll extort her with video clips made of our encounters without her consent; she’ll be pushed around, slapped senselessly, ridiculed in front of her boyfriend. Why? Because she has to learn not to play with men. First, let’s enjoy her gifts; when we had her more than a few times, but never too many, we get rid of her and make sure she doesn’t forget who she fucked with. It’d keep her real, show to her man that she now has a different life, who knows? Maybe he proposes and she flies back to him the next morning. Nothing like being cheated to feel like you could do all the things you said you’d do but never got around to. Suddenly, you doubt yourself, pain makes you focus. Your tunnel vision takes you where the action unfolds: you can get there, you’re on your way, pace yourself, don’t rush, don’t pause.

Long term relationships aren’t my thing, though they happen from time to time, taking a few weeks, a few months, if at all. In reality, if I stumble upon something comfortable and have space and time to leisure, I enjoy time by myself. Time with friends… what friends? I got people who surely qualify for that status. But I rarely see people I know, or have any friends whom I frequent. I’m sort of a loner in the highest social hierarchy of the word; in essence, if you were to engage me somehow, you’ll see I have not a shy bone in my body, am very social and seemingly outgoing. I do go out from time to time, always a new place and often seldom, but friends are not something I’m very good at. I did have them in the past, not many but yeah, one or two. I’m a loner, yes. But only because I think if someone else is worth my time, I still am by myself most of the time. Nowadays, we’re immersed in social media; my phone doesn’t have Internet, just unlimited talk & text for a fraction of a smartphone.
I like things simple. Only one person at a time. I am not running around, looking for someone to fuck the minute someone else walks out the door. Yeah, part gaziantep rus escort of the mating ritual is, develop and harness your strength, keep your resolve virile and go for it. Will some women resist you? Of course. You can’t possibly attract everything that surrounds you. Unless, of course, you believe that’s the case. Look, people believe in all sorts of nonsense: religion, faithfulness, truthfulness, etc. We know we live in a world where everyone is secretly rooting for your demise, something that shows your vulnerability. It validates their limited views. Where as those who’re strong will inspire you to go beyond, not overlook failures, move on swiftly. If you hurt, be one with your pain; do not fight how you feel, just find things to do and learn to enjoy your solitude. Venture out from time to time, exercise, meditate, write and keep chopping, the stone will be cut.
I’m not into one night stands, though I can’t complain when they happen. They do, but leave you empty and so you need to go on and find another skin to sink into, slowly. Long-term relationships, on the other hand, are either full or devoid of drama, lack some of the passion that the “in-love” phase took in spades, and sooner rather than later make-up sex turns boring. Unless you’re a curious lover, you learn how to please your woman, you’re always finding out what turns her on. Let her blow steam, don’t try to control her volcano, let it erupt, its lava will run out its course. You can’t contain a disaster by being the recipient; you need to be the head, not go with the motions. Practice until you’re no longer trying, until you exude aplomb.

She told me, intimacy was better. That’s why I wanted to find out ever since what made a woman go wild, what keeps her in suspense. I allowed him in and opened the doors to my place, invited him to come into our lives so that he could show me how to be more like him. That’s how he ended up buried deep between her thighs, as I walked in the door unexpectedly one night. I was done with lessons; had them recorded without their consent, proof of her adulterous misconduct, divorced her and took half her shit. Which was half of mine, not much, just a small condo, two cars, some savings. We didn’t have any kids, so I knew I had it easy. Whatever the price to pay for my single life, I was more than willing to. And I was young, not as young as I am today, but young.
Chronologically, I was younger. But I was also a whole lot heavier, never worked out, remained mostly indoors. I’d listen to moody rock, I was somewhat depressed but also in my early twenties, so I thought it’d pass, and it did. It did when I finally decided to lift some weights and go for runs. I did so until I transformed my body, but even then I exercised mostly at home. Now I’m fitter than I was in my mid twenties, and I feel great. Exercise did not just transformed my body; it transformed my mind.

I never did like long distance relationships. In fact, I never trusted the whole “relationship” thrown into the equation. Every relationship forged with other people in our lives, family, friends, even, is a relationship. What we consider a romantic relationship depends much on the culture you grow up in, so living apart makes people less likely to stick around. For some people, it works, and that’s just because these are smarter people, strategic planners, do not think relationships should be based on emotion. Much more is at stake than what our feelings want to depict.

Of course, I speak from experience. Not that I had a long distance relationship, but I did once have a flight attendant girlfriend. That’s like having a long-distance relationship.
It was so intense we ended up having a kid together.
The thing with flight attendants -nothing I wish upon anyone -is that they get sometimes called to fly on the spot and it’s in many ways a lot like a long-distance relationship. I couldn’t possibly live under such a state of agony, you know how territorial us Latin men are, but I know it happens both ways; girls get jealous too, they’re just better at hiding their feelings. All relationships have their ups and downs, lift off and landing… especially this beautiful girl would fly me anywhere and those perks are hard to come by, so I just sat there and took it for a while. It didn’t last long, but it did long enough to have a beautiful son together. Well, at least something good came out of it. As a consequence, I became convinced that from there on, I’d be on the other side of the spectrum. That is, I wanted to be the one with a girl who had a boyfriend, not the one cheated on but the one being cheated on. If you really think about it it’s the same difference, but not having the title of boyfriend somehow made it seem as if you have the upper hand. It’s a girl with two guys, and there really isn’t a big difference whether you’re or you’re not the one called boyfriend. As a matter of fact, the boyfriend, if you really think about it, may end up suffering less and also be the one who ends up with her in the end. First, he may suspect something but it doesn’t mean that his suspicions are well-founded. Therefore, he gets the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps his mind is overactive, she may very well be telling the truth. You, on the other hand, do not get to be fooled. You know what is going on, and she’s not with you, you know for sure she is with him. You may believe in your mind that she’s not having anything to do with her “boyfriend”, but you know she has him in his life and he’s probably going to be number one, no matter how good the sex is. Ignorance is bliss.

One time her boyfriend called and since I was irking to punish her for having a boyfriend at all, I told her to answer him. She did, as I was inside her, and it was oh so devilishly good.
I tried not to make any noises, as she spoke to him, as she went down on me, as I penetrated her softly. Afterwards, it was just crazy.
We’d go at it for hours, talk about it, as we continued to get it on.
“No, baby, I’m just home, doing nothing. I’m excited though, playing with myself” she’d lie, moaning freely, her arousal, her lies. I prefer it that way.
It’s best to be with a whore you know than a saint you can’t trust. You know what to expect and everything on this end is so spontaneous, unexpected and fleeting, just like life itself. You don’t know when you’ll die, but you do know that you will; love is the inverse equation, you believe it’d last forever, it is eternal so long as it lasts, but even though you know it will eventually come to an end, so long as you love, it is a perennial testament to all mundane and transitory things. Existence is harsh, it doesn’t offer a way out it seems, at times; love is always hopeful, kind, patient and insane. You know you’re fooling yourself, but logic goes out the window; when you love, you’re like a child. Everything and anything is possible. And then, when you find yourself on the skeptic side of the fence, when you’re just the lover, not the loved one, you know what to expect: nothing and yet, ironically at times, have everything. You can not demand but you get results. Maybe both sides of the spectrum are love-based. You may think you don’t love that person because they’re in a relationship with someone else; but if they love that other person so much, why do they feel the need to stray? We’re never satisfied. We’re complex creatures and rightfully so. The way I see it, life is too hard to be on the loved one side. I much rather play the lover.

I enjoy very much this side of things. It’s not that I’m afraid of falling for someone; it’s that I want someone who looks me in the eye and doesn’t say much, but it’s someone I know, I don’t want a complete stranger in my bed, the more I simply tolerate her, the more she resents me. Alienation takes place when two perfectly strangers sleep in the same bed for more than one night. What to expect of. Life is too hard to be the loving one; be loved and in one. You want to play your cards right, not just act half aloof and whatnot, instead get control of the game by staying in control. That’s what the game is all about: keeping your cool.

When you know you’re a cheat, and she’s a cheat, you know each other. Accepting one another is a way of loving each other. You accept who you are and she accepts you as you are; you, in turn, have no objections as to her having something meaningful. But, again, how meaning can it really be? Who knows? And more importantly, who cares? What you get in return is far more rewarding than being blinded by love. Many are and, in a way, I envy them. It’s that sometimes you end up on that side, even though you started from being the one she was having an affair with. You end up having feelings and she ends up feeling something for you. You guys must feel something for each other, you just know the rules do not allow those feelings to be manifested in the open. You say, “Don’t talk to me about feelings, you have someone else.” She may say the same to you if you ever bring up any objections: “Hey, you know I have a boyfriend.” And that, in a very concise way, makes things different and make them stick, and it all seems so much more simple or, at the very least, less complicated than being in love. Love is madness.
-Are you going out tonight? I’m bored, need a distraction. Maybe you know a friend you can introduce me to? -I asked Kayla, long legs, petite frame, thick dark hair, athletic bombshell.
She’ll text me the place she’s at and I’d probably hook up with one of her gorgeous friends or bang her like the other night. Her boyfriends thinks she shares her apartment with a gay guy. Never did question her about it, guy’s soft.
I always preferred girls who had boyfriends. The sex is hotter, it purges their darkest side, turning into lovers who give completely, do not hold back and lie not just to their loved one, but to themselves. It gets them in touch with their inner whore. Nothing like getting fucked by someone you can see you as you really are; being good takes tons of hypocrisy and restraint. Being bad, not evil, just the good kind of bad, the immoral type, cleanses us, redeems us, sets us free. Most of the time, we spend doing the right thing, being good and assuming the position of a good Samaritan. It’s only when we do as we please that we let that caged animal inside roam freely in the wilderness, get its feet in the mug and breath the luminescent air of an ancestral forest that we long forgot… because we spend our time in a fancy prison called modern life, bounded by rules, submitted to the whims of morality and decency. Cheating is what we do so that we don’t have to go and kill our prey. We miss being hunters, relying on our killer’s instincts and slaying our next meal. All we have to do is take a walk to the fridge and grab a bite. It’s convenient but we lost in the process something far too precious. It’s time we regain some of our impulses, let the animal out the cage, take a bite out of freedom. Our chains are psychological.
We can get rid of them if we understand the logic behind it. Why is it that we play the moral card when what we really want is tango with our inner beast, devour and conquer? I see women everywhere infected with boredom, leading lives of convenience, it advances their careers, puts food on the table, makes for a good bedtime story. Little do they expect a stranger out of nowhere engage them without the slightest guilt, take them out of their good girl routine, unlike all the temptations the males’ hovering and vacillation that never fully materialize, as if they feared them. There are subways packed with beautiful people, sitting next to one another on my way to and back from work; hundreds of beautiful strangers on a stroll through the city; and most have fallen into a conventional and ordinary slumber. Stepping out of our comfort zone causes us stress, naturally we’ll avoid it because we do more to avoid pain than to experience pleasure. It’s good that the competition is asleep, that they do not wake; wouldn’t want to wake up tomorrow and find men everywhere casually making small talk with strangers everywhere. Even if some were to consciously, purposely decide to do, I’m light years ahead of them. I sleep well, meditate, get up early, eat a hearty breakfast, meditate, go for a run, meditate, drink tea instead of coffee, have a daily to-do list by my side that I intend to execute. Then I devote my day to meeting people; I’m quite good at it. I have a sense of style, it took me time to acquire, I dress good, nothing too extravagant; I am impeccable, shave my head, my armpits, look the part, feel the part, play the part. I love what I do, and I’m good at it..
I can hardly wait till morning to engage all the beautiful women that I’ll meet tomorrow. I do so in a nonchalant way, without attracting too much attention, and when I do, I usually choose a relatively easy target, someone who has given signs of interest. If you have to eye to see, you see all the angles. Some have the eyes to see but lack the stomach to carry the mission swiftly and show no remorseless.
It’s not that “I don’t have any” guilt, is that I don’t even know what does anyone benefit from jealousy, guilt, rancor or any negative emotion, anger, regret, worry, fear…. emits like an echo that resonates in the background of your mind… I do have shame, I am wearing clothes, not like Lilian, mid-twenties, boyfriend in Iraq told her that he had been raped by the enemy and let go. His girlfriend never saw him after he came back from his tour. Lilian and I became lovers, I’d dress her in a camouflaged military outfit, sit her on top of me as she spoke to her boyfriend on the phone. Not pride, just sex, it’s something we all crave and the sooner we realize that, the less anxiety to be had in our lives. Along with jealousy and resentment, anger is at its fueling root, diminish the intensity with which you process anger, unless you want to repel someone, the enemy is clear: anger. Think of your anger state, when it finally succeeds as a voice to animate itself unto you, making you its hostage, like a mind-control parasite that feeds off every bitter bout of unleashed, repressed feelings. Anger is a loss of control, and it’ll guide you to a self-defeating and in itself-fulfilling place, one you know oh only too well. By then, it usually is too late. Be mindful of what voice harvests in your inner realm, so long as you’re a watchful, like a vigilante spectator, ready to strike once it surfaces and eradicate this erratic and dissonant siren before it sinks its teeth and claws skin deep and spreads like a rampant fever and overtakes its host (you) with its seething tentacles. You can unmask it by neutralizing the pull it exerts, shut off your thoughts which may only fuel and ignite it, breath fully and deep. Once it has taken over, go to great lengths to minimize it, impart damage control, soften your approach. Recognize yourself in the act, as it happens, see yourself for the incredible-hulk moment you’re undergoing. Anger is madness, and only because you can never be aware of its condition; no one can be reasonably crazy. What you say in anger, what you do, is hurtful; to you and to others, and it doesn’t always remedy things. Why, then, such rush?
Well, it’s good to have it ready and in some instances, when it is absolutely necessary, to go all out. If you were to encounter a madman in the middle of the night in your home, wouldn’t you go to great lengths to cast that intruder out? Same with anger, expel that demon out of you. Even in tense situations, things work out best if you assert yourself, you’ll find most people eventually respond to reason and respect the level-headed entity that grounded them. You can exercise great power when you manage to keep yourself in check and remain in control. Ironically, sometimes all it takes is giving up the illusion that you can control someone else and by just refraining from engagement, by staying back like an observer, you can better assess a situation. If there were an accident, and you weren’t involved or affected by it, then you have a better chance to make the right decision by taking charge of the situation and imparting, from a level-headed and in-control attitude, the most plausible solution.
We can experience anger in good doses, manifest our dissatisfaction without losing control, cool heads always prevail, you can handle anything, do what needs to be done. So long as you keep things under control, you’ll find that tense situations will flex, wither and fade. If you reinforce it somehow, if your voracious and overwhelming tendency to start fires leaves just a lit butt behind, you can cause irreparable damage. You do not want to just put out the fire; you want to make sure you have a fire prevention mechanism in place when it comes to your peace of mind. You avoid flammable entities that stir the passions and lead to that incandescent flame, weed them out. Anger, just as fire, isn’t a bad hand dealt to you in the lowest point of your game; it can be helpful, in small doses, as I’ve said before. Just like you can use fire to warm up your place, fend off potential predators, cook your meals and light up the darkness, if left improperly tended, it can easily and in a matter of seconds spread and burn all that inside your house, things you deemed sacred and honorable, things that time and dedication built. You can ruin relationships, alienate powerful allies, disrupt the progress made.
Anger, it latches on to you like a parasite who overrides its host, animating itself through you, rendering you a zombie. You become an agitated entity, a minuscule voice that ruminated inside among many other more sound and vocal voices governing your well thought-out actions, like a virus that infects you and makes you sick and powerless. Ever since two strangers in a heated exchange, it causes those who witness it to choke in laughter. It’s funny when it happens to others, and you enjoy it; not so much so when it happens to you. Daily life, however, affords you the opportunity to become ever so present and not only to recognize yourself in the act and take the proper action to disengage, but also to never get to that act in the first place. Little by little, this insignificant voice which you have chosen to manifest in the past dims, its potency loses track, it recedes back to the shadow from which it stemmed.
Repressed anger can be just as bad. But only because you Of course, you can’t be a chicken either and expect others to treat you with respect. If we all lived in a highly evolved spiritual world, then it’d make all the sense in the world. But we’re dealing with the mundane, the troglodytes, and they only understand one thing: misery. You can keep them at bay by showing that you have zero tolerance for nonsense. And you do so, not by enabling them, or engaging them somehow, because these types feed off of that resistance. You keep them as far away from you as possible, as you would a highly contagious person with a deadly disease. Agree if you must, just to get them out of your orbit and see how little by little they drift away and are nothing more than a speck of dim of darkness in the back of your blistering enlightened sun. Be the star, the center, and everything will gravitate towards you.

It took me years to fuck Lina. But there was more than just anger in her, she was passionate as well as feisty, impetuous, pure dynamite… a matter of lighting up a match and watch her go off. It turned me on to piss her off, cool her down, bring her to my lascivious cave and let her roam free like a wild animal, pacing back and forth like a cave lion as her shadow is projected unto a wall in successions, each one a tormented, twisted version of herself. There were layers to her wrath and hidden underneath each peeled stripe a hardened shell that, like a scrape-off lottery ticket, was one existential itch away from scratching.
She’d let me finger her, pin her down, lick her milky, silhouetted neck, inhale the scent and feel the abrasive wildfire seething underneath her pale skin. I’d do a body kiss, and there was no rush, she loved every bit of attention paid, every sigh forfeited, grow anxious whenever I halted a hush, raising a flag of defamation in a conquered land… she was no longer in charge, she let go, I’d guide her rush, make her boil “insight” out and then… only then… no, not yet. I gave her what she wanted by not giving her what she want, I kept her in suspense, feeding off my hand.
Her anger becomes your anger, altered states of mind are so contagious and they infect their host in a lighting fast moment that fades moments later. Only demented or mentally-challenged individuals can live in a perpetual state of anger.

Natalia asked me if I wanted to do her in front of her husband who had suffered a brain hemorrhage and, though lucid, was paralyzed from the neck down. Irrevocably, she was out for revenge. His breath increases, tears roll down his angered, decomposed face, he’d never get used to it, had he been the man he once was, she would have never cross him.
When in use of all his faculties, she never had to work but he also never allowed her to go out. She didn’t have any friends, no freedoms. The bastard was paying, now that he was under her care, she could unravel. Fucker was tough: miraculously survived in a car crash that killed everyone else aboard. Initially, he wasn’t responsive when asked what his name was, didn’t seem to have much contact with reality. He was living in a vegetative state. His bored wife was with him most of the time, enjoying the luxuries of his wealth.

Embrace your pain, be one with it, don’t tongue the roof of your mouth when it’s wounded… we all work so hard for: the beautiful girl. First, it’s not about fixation or having the means to shower her with gifts, trying to buy her appreciation. She can sense and will be turned off by your neediness. I don’t get stuck up on one single girl, and I make it my goal to strike conversations with a few daily, never go home without a new number, an email. I advertise myself too, with business cards, have a YouTube channel, my business card says “Pleasure is in taking care of business” and it has my Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Gmail address. My books sell enough good enough without having to spend too much on advertisement; but I do promote myself and spend money getting the word out. It’s how I make a living, and whatever I spend on it, it comes back tenfold.

I started going ape. It’s an exaggerated display of dominance, occupying more space, marking territory, sudden movements and posturing. Of course, if you do so as to call the attention of others unto you then you’ll appear crazy; it has to be done with some subtlety, and exude a relax, unimposing attitude. Character is in the lack of emotion, any emotion, that is your center. Your actions should emanate from that core, spring up your dorsal spine, thrill every of the way. Your sway, the way you handle yourself, the peace offering of your gifted soul.

I can’t fall asleep. I must wake up soon. I’m dreaming wide awake, half asleep, sleepwalking through the walls of my dreamlike wakeful hours, how many of those hours did I spend fighting the good fight, you become aware all of those around are immersed in their inner worlds and if you suddenly decide to enter their spirit, you awaken something inside. Some welcome this, most people are receptive, given the right energy, you are more likely to open them up if you remain receptive and open yourself. Your demeanor, your tonality and eloquence, your attire and attitude, your stance and gait and, more importantly, your inner world, should always be projecting a positive, assertive vibe. Not mild and friendly, but stout and robust in character, yet friendly enough. Like niceness with balls, proceed unabashedly, better to pass off as full-hearty than halfhearted. People may be taken aback by your brashness but they will never celebrate your timidity. Of course, don’t be obnoxious, as if you were putting a show. Everyone loathes the clown. Aloofness isn’t a trait you adopt nor a role you play; you don’t play the mind game, you play the here and now game. What matters is this moment, are we making the best of it? Challenge yourself every present moment, be fully aware of all the potential alternatives to your present state. It’s not about how you are now; it’s about what’s becoming. A stronger, bolder vision.

Take the pain of jealousy. We suffer this, when the solution is so simple: abandon the childish illusion that your lover belongs to you. Your bond should go beyond the simple sexual exclusivity. I’m a serial monogamist. I don’t want to be with my girl and another guy, but the more freedom I give her, the more freedom I get. Besides, what we usually get stuck with is jealous people, and if they happen to be too cold, is bad too. It’s like, we’re defeated from the beginning. Either we’re the one who loves the most and feel as if our partner isn’t a la par with us, or we’re loved and not really feeling it. We can just drop the pretense that anyone owe us more than the time that they choose to spend with us, because that’s what makes people want to come back for more: you give them space and chase. You pursue people, go out and meet more people, daily, if that’s your style; I, on the other hand, like very much my solitude, time alone is spent on meditation, writing, reading, working out, doing chores and taking care of things at home. It means time to reflect, to enjoy, to venture out for a couple of beers and come back home to take care of business. Finally, I got my 401K loan and still got some money left from the income tax return. Even though I’ve been separated for the last three years, I kept the marriage status: come tax season we get a lofty sum of which I give her one third.
I still fuck her, just like I do my other two girls. I often go out and bring home a random beautiful girl and introduce her to my other girls. How could this ever be possible if I played the gorilla boyfriend? Look, bottom line is simple, jealousy doesn’t feel good, it really is about our insecurities, no one belongs to us and there’s nothing more sexy than independence and people who love you without trying to change you. You can easily have threesomes, or if you’re more reserved “a night off” each other.
It’s not that I dislike relationships. I see them as partnerships, and I give and I take, eventually all good things must come to an end. If you’re wise enough, you’ll recognize when it’s time to move on; the harder you try to block it out, the more vivid the image will be and grow in you. We can’t resist. We must surrender; do not fight your inner demons. Make peace with the devil and invite the good in. You can have your cake and eat it. Your girl can go out and have fun, stop being so primitive. It’s not a pissing contest. Though you gotta do your own thing, don’t just sit around and do nothing. Unless, of course, is mindfulness.
My girl liked to bring a friend of hers who’d just ravish her right there by that sofa. It was a bitter winter, cold as never before, but people still ventured out. On good nights, take a walk out, have a beer. And then on your way back home, see the other guy’s car parked on your driveway. You look up the window in your apartment and the light is on. You can’t make out what’s happening, but there’s some fucking involved. You’d go to the bar, have another beer, everyone is looking at you, they know you’re there without your woman and they know something is wrong. They may not say a damn thing, but they are thinking it. In fact, they’re talking about it behind your back. Of course, I don’t go much to the local bar.
-Hey, buddy… your wife was here a little while ago.
-Oh yeah… she’s with that cousin of hers…
-Yeah, that cousin -the bartender said.
Two people nearby laughed, they knew something wasn’t right, why did she choose to come to the local bar. This is the last time they see my face around here.
I found her in my bed, on all fours, facing the door I came in. I inhaled deeply, the scene was morbid, my heart was pounding, racing. I had gone to the bar, spent time with a hooker and these two were still at it. She told me, he was a much better lover: stronger, bigger, lasted more, was far more dominant, fucked her different every time. Not the usual hopping on top of her, and convulsing over her, until orgasm, then fall asleep, oblivion. She felt empty and I knew, I wanted more too. I wanted to go out and mingle, to have a few beers with friends, flirt with all the cute strangers, misbehave from time to time.
She wanted the same. It had always been the case, but you just never get used to it. No matter how open you feel and live, there will always be boundaries to cross, other women to fuck and then maybe posterity. Who cares? She isn’t your property. Lend your car, it’s less headaches this way. You both know each other. There are far more important issues at stake than just feelings. You need to know that passion and lust wane in time; but that’s not a reason to throw away all the things you forged so far together. If you learn to truly let go, then you must do away with anger and all the feelings it conjures: sadness, violence, abuse, sorrow, jealousy, regret, betrayal, indifference, all springing from the unfathomable ego.
Imagine a world without jealousy. This is also more a prospect the minute you stop doubting your lover, give them plenty of space, we’re all grown up. She’s not your mommy; quit it.
The Ego says, “You should own your woman.”
You can only own yourself, exert self-control, no matter what others think of it. In any situation, you find yourself in, there you are! It’s best to know yourself, what you’re capable of, where your loyalties lie, who you are by continuing to be without her and who you’ll become once this period of grief hisses by. We all hurt, and I won’t mask my pain… it hurts being without her, but hurt more being with her.

Ana’s mother, Anabel, had migrated from a ravished land in Middle America, crossed the dessert into the States and met Milo at a bar restaurant where she worked as a waitress. Anabel had gone out with several men before, had slept around discreetly, fishing, until she met and soon thereafter married Milo. A few years later, she had an affair and left Milo, but got back when she was pregnant with Ana. Ana, polygamous as the mother who deserted her when she was five, grew up to follow in her footsteps and hopped from relationship to relationship until she arrived at my office. She had lived with her dad, Milo, in a small one bedroom apartment in Queens, N.Y. That was before her real dad, Geronimo, took her to live with him. He had dreamed of raising that girl as if it were his and have her call him dad, but Geronimo didn’t find it proper for his daughter to grow with another man, and took her mother to court. Geronimo won.
Milo saw in his adoptive daughter her mother’s eyes, her smile, it was like the bitch had never really left. But he also so the terrifying resemblance she had from her father, the man who had impregnated and taken his wife from him. One night she said she was going out for cigarettes and never came back. Milo didn’t notice until the next morning when the coffee was made and he was running minutes late to work, as usual. Her name was Anabel, and so they had decided to name their daughter Ana.
And a few years later her father, Geronimo, took custody of her. It was his way of getting back at Milo, even though Milo’s wife, Anabel distanced herself from Geronimo, she had done so because he had gotten bored of fucking her and now that they had a kid, he decided to spread his seed elsewhere. His whole actions were selfish and not at all guided by noble feelings for his daughter. It took Geronimo sometime to actually warm up to his sibling, given the demanding hours at his job as a restaurant manager.
Ana was under the care of a girl who played being her nanny and dressed like a sexy maid. Geronimo met her as a waitress who was always late to work and seemed desperate not to lose her means of earning a living. Geronimo had been acting out the bossy role for years and could smell the fear in his subordinates, it’s what made him so good at his job, instill fear and watch things run smoothly. His employees all feared him and in order to get leverage, some girls tried to seduce him. They all secretly wanted to fuck him.
Milo’s wife, Anabel, had met him at the restaurant one night her husband and her had an argument at the restaurant. They had been drinking too much, and Geronimo, as manager, had to intervene. He took them both outside with the help of two male employees. Seeing that Milo was visibly drunk and had been loud inside the establishment, he had been less than polite taking him out. Anabel fought back and tried to rally Milo to do something about the humiliation they both had endured at the hands of this man. Geronimo handled her firmly, and Milo had felt his strength when taken out by the arm, so he decided just to yell at the guy outside the restaurant.
Geronimo waited until there was no one around, and just as Anabel opened her mouth to curse him out as she had inside, he smacked her flush. She was shocked and her husband had no choice but to intervene. Geronimo landed him on the floor with one devastating punch to the jaw and Milo did not get up. Geronimo walked up to Anabel and she froze, up against her car she struggled to find the key. Geronimo waited until she found it but even then it took her a while.
-You’re an animal! -she screamed, pointing at her husband on the floor through the rear-view mirror, as she tried to start the car and he jumped her. “Animal!” she yelled at him as he pushed her back and grabbed her by the hair. He took her out of the car by force, she felt that there was really nothing she could physically do to prevent the assault and neither did she want to, but still she screamed theatrically, loud enough to excite him but not alert anyone. Besides the music bursting inside, the two employees remained by the door watching them, making sure no one got out.
-Tell them to go away… -she begged Geronimo.
-Guys, turn around!
And the two men did.
Geronimo ravished her and she fought back valiantly, she wanted it to be rough but did nothing to alert anyone. She scratched and punched and kicked and bit and breathed heavier and heavier. It was a lost battle. Geronimo had advanced despite her onslaught, and to think that half the effort would’ve dissuaded her husband any night, Anabel was ravished again and again. The only difference between rape and ravish is that one is consented, and so long as she didn’t call out for help and did not seem genuinely frightened, Geronimo felt everything was game. Her fight directed towards him and Geronimo loved that she fought back, gave her the chance to, didn’t break all her attempts at defending herself. Initially, Anabel wanted to inflict pain, not just pretend to fight back; she was ferociously fighting back, spitting, biting, cursing, but little by little, Geronimo depleted her aggressiveness with his own portentous will, with firm tact and almost as if to let her know that he was in control. She felt it, but still she pushed back and tested his resolve, now she was convinced.
Milo began to recover consciousness when Geronimo finally broke through her last stance, and broke in, one thick inch at a time. She screamed her guts out and sensing some grave danger, Milo opened his eyes only to encounter hers fixed on his, a condescending smile broadened on her face, blossomed like . Her husband Milo could see the blurry scene, blood in his broken lips, he pretended to still be knocked out, did not want to taste Geronimo’s wrath. Instead Milo decided to let him cool down and take the edge off that anger with his consenting wife, who by now was no longer fighting back. Geronimo had her come twice, and Anabel had gone on her knees to suck him off as he splashed his thick loaded seed all over her face and mouth.

The boy inside doesn’t want to move out. It doesn’t pay rent and wants to party all night, make noise, have troubled relationships, and then wreck whatever we’ve worked for. The adult knows it has to keep the boy in check, go to work, exercise to lose the neurotic chains of bad habits like smoking, drinking and overeating, the more terrain the adult occupies, the less likely the boy wants to stay home and demand attention.
People may or may not realize it but the voices inside their head rule their lives. What’s interesting is how we validate our way of being, even when it causes us pain. Generally speaking, people falls under two categories: passive or aggressive. Of course, we’re complex creatures which means we fluctuate, in the ambivalence of these two forces. Few people are assertive, in the center; because the center (that is, being in control) is not fun and it takes practice and it isn’t fun; most crave the rush of being the one who inflict the pain, and those who enjoy receiving it may deny it, causing themselves more pain in the process. When a submissive person admits their nature, this inner struggle cedes to exist and that resistance which once caused pain is now a source of pleasure. Acceptance makes things easier, and so if you’re the one who suffers in relationships or, as they might call it, “the one who loves more”, then you’re being passive, feminine, and it’s okay to be so.
In nature, most animals are passive, very few truly aggressive; otherwise, there would be too much conflict and harmony is what nature intended. Let the macho-types kill one another off, the most adaptive organisms aren’t the strongest, just the ones that happen to survive. And I’ve seen the same in my human experience, women tend to be passive, love being led by a dominant male, but wouldn’t dream of admitting it out loud. What they say and they do are at odds, because they’re ruled by raw emotion and aren’t really in control once these are ignited in them. You can become an emotional master puppeteer, if you learn to pull the right strings in them. And I’m not speaking vaguely, for you to go figure it out; the way you get people to do what you want is by subconsciously hitting them where it hurts most. In women, it usually revolves around their vanity. See, to them is a matter of survival to be able to attract males, therefore their world is upside down whenever one of these potential partners refuses her. She goes on the offensive, that’s just an example of a “string” you can pull. It may sound manipulative but everyone’s doing it as we speak, they get you to do things suggestively, some may do so bluntly, everyone everywhere is either pulling strings or having theirs pulled.
Nothing “macho” about it. Women tend be the puppeteer masters, having supreme male specimen prototypes do their bidding. “If you love, you’d do it” and it still works like a charm. Except they don’t feel attraction for the male who can be easily persuaded. You may be strong enough to stand up for her but you’ll never be strong enough in her eyes unless you stand up to her. And again, the way to go about isn’t engaging in arguments. The minute you get caught into an argument, you’re done. Be the one who is in control by remaining to be so, don’t lose your cool, do so firmly. Be strong enough to take her on without letting her bitchiness throw off your game. Because when that happens, you lost. Don’t let anger seduce you and don’t keep it bottled up either. Express it the way a man only should: be straightforward and unemotional. But have a firm tenderness, too; after all, you’re dealing with big children, as Schopenhauer once said of the fair sex.
And they love being treated like children. By the way, it isn’t abuse I speak of. Our children, if we are responsible parents, are under control. But that doesn’t mean we are to abuse them. In the same assertive manner, we’re in charge of our women; that is, if you like being in charge. No one’s forcing you, and truthfully, many men are content to have their women rule the relationship. Others believe is a give and take, but love isn’t egalitarian. You may want to play the role of a fair king, but don’t let her challenge you for the throne. The more you keep on doing what she doesn’t expect of you, and not just being mean to her but also kind, adventurous, here now and gone the next minute, the more unpredictable you are, the more you can expect her to be around.
They feed off your manly core. Give it to them, show them no mercy, no fear, no reservation. Take them on. Be the passionate, centered, out of this world lover she’s always fantasized about, the warrior in shiny armor who marched up to her gates at dawn, no retreat now, go and slay the dragon of her moodiness with your calibrated, in-control sense of direction and well-being. It’s predictable that where other men would lose their head, you’ll simply tune her off and adopt a body-to-mind energy that tells her where she stands in this equation: she’s beneath you so long as you don’t stoop to her level. She’ll sense your certitude, your self-assurance, and it’ll make her salivate to be in the presence of the ultimate man.
It’s not always about just making less of a situation or being all level-headed, sometimes you need to go on the offensive, grab her firmly by the hair or the arm, some calculated physical escalation that makes her feel your presence, not just talk and appeasement. You don’t want to intimidate her; you want her to feel your prowess, your uncompromising resolve, as well as your commitment and love. Be courageous, don’t be shy about the things you want; she’s yours, and you’re no less hers. She can bring it because you can take it. That’s how the fuck you roll. That’s you hold your woman.

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