Wedding Smashers

A part of having been who I am my whole life is that I have behavioural habits.  Some of these are extremely difficult to control, especially when drinking.  Most are innocuous.  Though some, while seemingly innocuous are in fact quite the contrary.  The following is an example of which that leads to a series of rolling failures of which only really very few are mine.  Jack McBastard doesn’t play well with others at times, especially when women and alcohol are involved.

It begins at a wedding.  I love weddings, I like drinking, I like dancing, I enjoy company and laughter.  I also adore love hungry bridesmaids who have had a few too many sparkling rosés and find me irresistible.  I swear I’m not a predator, I just happen to do really well at weddings.  I look great in a suit and always have a very fine one for the occasion.  I arrive early with a gift and normally have a choice seat somewhere in the single digits.  Not out of earshot of the family, usually a position of reasonable respectability.  Such was the case at this particular wedding which was for a co-worker to a wealthy heiress to a regional construction mogul.  The groomsmen were comprised of current and former co-workers as well.

Here’s the curveball, normally I’m a bachelor.  This isn’t an issue but drinks are served at the ceremony itself.  That’s right, an Irish wedding.  A wealthy Irish wedding.  Jack is already bucking at the strains of his restraints.  Especially when he spots the groom’s sister.  Now, the groom was my host and only a few years older than myself.  His sister a few years younger than him and even fewer years older than me.  She was spectacular and closer to my age and place in life.  We didn’t strike up conversation until the reception just before dinner when I stepped out for a cigarette.  I was already on my way to being well lubricated but still very witty and genial.  There she was with the bride’s father and a few other of her senior family members when I slid over and lit Pam’s cigarette.  I immediately commanded a light but interesting conversation for all present and departed a touch early and confident that I had left everyone intrigued enough to pursue me further for more.  This was confirmed later in at least Pam when I found myself once again smoking only to see her excuse herself from her company to come and join me for conversation.  we spoke for a time before I returned to get drinks for myself and my girlfriend.  Dinner had come and gone and I was drunk by this point and my bachelor habits started to return.  Though despite being drunk I was holding together nicely.  I was walking fine, speaking without slurring nor raising my voice.  I’m sure I exhibited some signs, though for the most part I was alright.  Truthfully I was bombed.  I still remember the details though.  I stopped to make casual conversation with a few groups of people including a few bridesmaids who I had no interest in.  I gave them compliments because that is what you do.  It’s polite.  The bachelor, Jack McBastard, even though he is a self-serving prick knows that if you want to do well with women you keep the herd happy.  Make them all feel appreciated.

I speak to Pam again.  This time I casually mention that I have a girlfriend.  This disturbs her visibly.  It didn’t occur to me that she was very seriously flirting with me the whole time… and I was right back!  Did I mention that I had been leaving my girlfriend unattended in the banquet hall while I stepped out for cigarettes to apparently flirt with Pam?  No, I don’t think I did.  Well, I had been for the last two hours without even realizing it.  The worst is yet to come.  This jars me a little and I finally notice how drunk I am, I have two whole pints so I return to my seat and tell my girlfriend that she better help me drink at least one because I am just simply not going to be able to manage both (truthfully I could have I just don’t think that I should at this point because I made a huge mistake and felt embarrassed enough).  I go out for another cigarette hoping to apologize to Pam, no go.  I don’t see her.

On the way back though I see her on the dance floor by the bar.  I go over and try to talk I apologize and I don’t know why but, I guess because I feel bad, I kiss her on the cheek.  Then I walk back and sit down with my girlfriend.  I tell her that we may be leaving soon I just need to go to the restroom.  Upon completing this I step out only to immediately find the maid of honour right in my face.  She calls me a piece of shit and tells me that I have been trying to pick up every woman in the place.  I ask her what women.  She says that they came to her complaining, I tell her to take me to them I would love for them to tell me directly what I said to make them think that I was interested in them.  Because as we know I have had no interest in anyone yet tonight other than the unusual bachelor habit of flirting with a woman without even realizing it.  She then tells me (as though dodging a bullet) but wait, your girlfriend is crying outside.  Now why isn’t that the first thing that you would have told me?  That seems like a far more important thing to me, I need to go see her.  Yeah you better, says she…  Okay crazy bitch, go find your story telling friends who need to find really attractive men and pretend that those men are then interested in them to make themselves feel like complete and worthy women.  When you find them why don’t you all get in a van and drive it into a river while it’s on fire so you can drown WHILE burning to death.  Thanks.

I go outside to find one of the guys who I used to work with standing between my girlfriend and myself.  He blocks me from talking to her.  He blames me for causing her for being upset.  I tell her I am taking her home.  He tells me that I don’t get to talk to my own girlfriend.  Then before I know what is happening I catch a punch square in the face.  My upper tooth punctures my lower lip.  It goes clean through to the outside.  I leave my feet and land in a pile of patio furniture.  Wearing a $1400 hugo boss suit.  I’m thrilled.  Fortunately because of this last fact I have the presence of mind to not lash back.  I stand up.  I turn and I leave.  I drive, drunk as fuck to the hospital.  I text my girlfriend because she has some of my possessions and I want them back as soon as possible.  I don’t really care what she does and I won’t call the police so long as she gives me my stuff back.  Finally she asks me where I am, I’m not quite sure why she cares…

She finally demands to meet me.  I tell her I am at the hospital.  She meets me and I am NOT in a good mood.  What happened was that the guys who I used to work with manipulated her into believing I was cheating on her.  She saw the kiss on the cheek and thought that it was for real.  They simply generated controversy and conflict for sport and violence because they literally had nothing going for them and the only available woman spent the whole night flirting with me.  They needed a bullshit reason to send me to the hospital for stitches.  Easy enough when your girlfriend is an insecure 22 year old and you have a really bad habit of behaving like a bachelor.

I’ve bounced from short lived relationship to sexual fling to short lived relationship and so on for my entire life.  I’ve always been on the prowl.  I honestly don’t know how to turn it off.  I don’t know if I ever will.

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Passion Profuse

I was recently given the opportunity to step my game up with my current girlfriend in the bedroom.  I did in fact manage to give her a multiple vaginal orgasm that I could maintain for longer than many minutes and then switch to a clitoral one and do the same.  I did this back and forth several times until I was worried she would go into convulsions.  I was quite pleased to be able to do this to a much younger woman, especially given that she had a hard time with orgasms early on in the relationship.  Now I can give her one anytime I feel like in a matter of minutes.  I try to be humble about this gift but it’s hard because I know for a fact that there aren’t many men this capable.  I know that they haven’t put in the effort and practice, nor do they have the basic fundamental understanding of a woman’s sexual anatomy.

I’d like to work on making women squirt.  I had this happen only once and we were in a 69 position, her legs locked up around my head and immediately about a pint of liquid was ejected into my mouth.  I nearly drowned.  It was all I could do to struggle my way free and get some air, spouting mouthfuls of female ejaculate all the while.  It tastes awful.  Like whale piss, I assume.

I probably come off as an overly aggressive over-sexed North American male.  Which I won’t lie, I kind of am.  The aggression comes in the form of dysphoria which is fading with the medication but I still have my triggers.  One of the biggest problems that I face is when people assume that I am a womanizer.  There is nothing dishonest about my sexual proclivities.  All parties enter into the bedroom aware of what is going to happen.  The only woman I have ever lied to was my current girlfriend.  I had announced to my friends that my intention was to pick up a woman and tell her that I was only 26 (just to see if I could get away with it) and that I had only been with a dozen partners (by the age of 15, lol).  I fessed up the next day before I invited her to come pick up my fitted Hugo Boss suit with me.  She accepted and we have been together since.  I was having sex before she was born, which means that I am technically old enough to be her father.

I pity people who haven’t had the opportunities I have.  There are things about my disorder and behavioural patterns that make me feel truly blessed.  For if I hadn’t been bipolar with hypomania I would have missed out on so many things.  It does however come with a few caveats.  I won’t be much of a family man, I didn’t trust myself enough to have children and distrusted my genetics even less.  While I’m mostly comfortable now that I’m medicated I wouldn’t want to raise a child with some of the disorders that are floating around in my family tree.  All while dealing with my own disorder.  So while I am physically fit, resilient, intelligent and attractive (most of the things you would want in a mate) I won’t be passing any of these traits on to a new generation.

My life is on a plateau.  I will likely never remarry.  I don’t want to sound cynical but I am still a little skeptical about my current relationship.  I do love her to bits but the odds against us are pretty fixed.  The age gap, the very different backgrounds, our places in life and the distance between us.  I’m nearly certain she will meet someone closer to her both geographically and in age.  I know she won’t intend to drift but she will.  As I’ve learned recently all the love, consideration and orgasms in the world can’t make a woman appreciate you when her mind is made up.  The ex had to turn me into a made-up villain, demonize me in her mind in order to convince herself she hated me.  Once that was done though she even convinced herself that talking to me in public and being civil would be an issue and ran behind a bouncer at a club… All totally fabricated concerns in her own mind, designed specifically to distance herself from me.  Women are very capable of making you into a new person in their mind, no matter who you actually are in order to justify hating and therefore leaving you.  It’s an amazing skill.  No sentimental remnants of attachment and no guilt, pure conviction that you are a monster despite all evidence.

My value isn’t based on what others think of me.  I pity a woman who manages to find fault in me.  I genuinely feel sorry for her that she is so utterly lost that she cannot see the effort I put into her.  The consideration, care and love.  Which doesn’t change simply because she went off the reservation and somehow found a way to change her feelings.  I still love them.  Even the ones I was angry with.  Even the ones who are so, so very wrong-minded that they blame me for their inadequacies.  I still think about them, mostly fondly with a hint of frustration at their shortcomings.  Not all people recognize gold when they find it.  I can’t say that I respect it, but I don’t hate them for it.

I may be a passionate frenzy, but I’m good at it and I have a heart of gold.

Balanced On One Hand

I had an epiphany with respect to my girlfriend: she isn’t crazy.  In fact, she is by far the most sane woman I have ever dated.  The second most sane is still a good friend of mine and her nickname is in fact “Crazy”.  No joke.  I’m forever a Gomez seeking a Morticia, a Joker in search of his Harley.  I’m a wild spark leaping for the stray black powder around the keg.  All of my relationships play out like Sid and Nancy, with or without drugs…

My girlfriend is regular folk.  There is nothing at all wild about her.  Which has pros and cons.  You might recall my complaints about being stale and bored.  Well I’m not.  It only occurred to me just recently that I was feeling that way because I am used to things being more chaotic.  Having a woman that picks at me until something happens, either we argue or we fuck.  Or we argue and fuck.  Then we make up and fuck.  It’s a whole process.  With my girlfriend we are copacetic.  Even keeled.  We fuck without event.

Toward that end, if you remember from this post I am very skilled with my hands.  I was able to give my new girlfriend, at the young age of twenty-two a vaginal orgasm that lasted no less than five minutes.  As it persisted I would whisper: “A little more…” and it would go on for another twenty seconds.  When it was over I said to her: “This is likely the best thing that has happened in your life thus far.”  She agreed.  The reason that this is news and noteworthy is because she was having intermittent mental blockage of her orgasms.  She would get right to the edge, over and over and then stop herself.  Also, generally speaking, younger women (even ones that masturbate) aren’t open to rolling vaginal orgasms.  I’ve found it to be nearly impossible to produce in anyone under the age of twenty-eight even with stellar technique.  I was going to attempt to bind this to a follow-up clitoral orgasm, however it seemed like once I released the rolling vaginal one she almost instantly lost steam.  Good enough though, for a start at any rate.  I actually pity her a little in a way.  You might wonder why, well the answer to that is simple:  She is very young and I am long in the tooth.  She is in her first actual relationship (I will note here that I am not her first sexual partner) I am just adding another nickel to my first dollar.  Should things go south for us (knock on wood) it will be probably a while before she encounters another man who can do this for her.  Men are notoriously horrible in the bedroom.  Largely because they are convinced everything is done with their penis.  I won’t claim to the be the best, though at least I put the work in with some skill.  This is, from what I understand, a rare quality to find in a man.

There are obvious reasons for why I have put the time into the aforementioned.  My bipolarity has found me in enough situations in order to practice it.  One of my favourite symptoms is the hypersexuality.  Women and cigarettes are the only two drugs that I just can’t quit.  If I was told that women were giving me dick cancer I would quit them, but even if I was told I had lung cancer I wouldn’t stop smoking.  So, big tobacco wins in the end.  Too bad “big vagina” isn’t how we refer to the porn industry.  Though, to be fair not all porn has something to do with vag…

So, my girlfriend isn’t crazy.  I feel as though she might be centering me.  She has become like a focal point.  I have two problems with this:  What happens when Jack feels trapped?  What happens when I no longer have her to center me?

 

Poorly defined.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our life styles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.”  – Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis.

 

I have spoken in the past of my poorly grafted frankenpersonality and my social mimicry, now it would seem that it is time to revisit this subject.  Because I truly believe at my core that I am empty, a hollow shell of a human-being with nothing of substance inside to offer.  I have been asked by my therapist, Lilith, to make an exercise of it.  To determine who I am.  When I was a teenager, around fifteen I think I wrote two poems and coined a term for what I believed myself to be.  The term is the title of the first poem as follows:

Never Man:

I am the reflection of a paperback novel,
I am poet type casted as a murderer.
I am an act but not an actor,
I am blessing under cover.
I am a fact but not a factor,
I am a lesson as a lover.
I am a demon on vacation,
I am the product of experiments.
I am your roaming free spirit,
I am the bearer of an evil eye.
I am the season of winter,
I am a psychological sneeze.
I am an antisocial nocturn,
I am a black and white collage.
I am never going to happen,
I am Theodor Geisel’s biggest fan.

You know, I was probably more clever and switched on then than I am now.  That kid has me figured out.  He was utterly correct and still is.  The second poem is a continuation in the negative, titled the same, part two!  As follows:

Never Man II:

I am not an artificially intelligent ego,
I am not a self inflicted sacrifice.
I am not among the socially profound,
I am not a hedonistic daydream.
I am not the product of our society,
I am not the echo of an afterthought.
I am not without a sense of tragedy,
I am not going to wait for life to happen.
I am not a reality addict,
I am not interested in what others believe.
I am not going to allow myself to delegate,
I am not the conductor of routine ritual.
I am not a dissipating disappointment,
I am not your enemy.

Oddly enough I think I’m working against the grain on the second one.  I mean, yeah I may not be those things but I am slowly drifting toward them.  It looks like I need to shape up.

The Neverman is poorly defined and has been since.  Nothing has changed.  Dysphorian and Jack are one and the same and both are a middle shade of grey.  Sure, my behaviours may land in the extreme but are they all that defines me?  Almost.  I have few hobbies.  Few friends.  Few relatives.  No pets.  No mate.  No accomplishments, unless you count surviving depression but to what end?
There are always soft skills.  I can undo a bra through a shirt with one hand.  While mixing a martini with the other.  Just kidding.  About the martini, the first part was true.  I’m fashionable.  I’m fashion conscious, tapped in to changing trends and I advise others when the situation arises (sometimes when it isn’t even requested).  I am a very fine cook when I have the required equipment at hand, owing to an endeavour that I never saw through to the end.  I refer of course to my culinary experiences.  I haven’t finished any schooling, I hold no tradesman papers and I have no certificates.  I am not an angler nor a hunter.  I am a novice archer.  A promising novice archer at that.  So am I defined by an antiquated skill with an obsolete weapon/tool?  I am not Dysphorian the archer.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Canto XXVII of In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson,

I have abundantly loved.  If such love is lofty and I have ascended, my descent was equally thus and tragic all the more.  My heart is an icebreaker.  Carving through tundra ice shelves until run adrift on craggy sharp rocks and dashed.  This is where my lust takes me.  I have a passion for women that cannot be sated.  I pursue them with the intention of no more than a sexual encounter.  Instant carnal gratification.  Alas, my foolish heart becomes mired in the ice, carving away at the austere exterior of a woman I only just met.  A woman fascinated with Jack’s boisterous and charismatic nature.  They are quite taken with me right away.  I will be honest here, I usually go through the motions because I don’t have the heart to be mean, I lack a killer instinct as I’ve mentioned in the past.  I cannot simply walk away on them and while I am physically attracted to them there is always the chance that we could carry on sleeping together…  Then it happens, I begin to fall in love, my own lust and passion becomes legitimate emotions, feelings of attachment.  As this is occurring, little by little she begins to lose interest in me.  This is why my longest relationship has lasted 2 years.  The rest of the time the plan mostly works, I meet a woman who is in it for the ultra short-term and she calls it quits before either of us becomes invested.  Win-win.  There are pros and cons to this.  Pros:  I understand female sexual anatomy better than about 99.99997% of the standard male population, I’m very pro-women out of an organic relationship with femininity and I usually put the seat down when I’m finished.  Cons: I will grow old alone.  Are we defined by our relationship with a spouse?  I’m not even sure that monogamy is natural to humans.  So no, we are definitely not defined by our partner, those come and go, die of cancer, cheat on you and leave, or just betray you because they don’t like the fact that you are depressed.  If you rely on other people to define who you are, I think you need to do some soul searching.

“We are what we repeatedly do.  Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”  – Aristotle

I’ve held many jobs.  This and nothing more.  I’ve never had a career nor a vocation.  I’ve never been truly passionate about anything other than the feminine form and the destruction of dislogic.  I cannot abide the spread of misinformation and falsehoods which grows alarmingly contrary to what you would believe given our increasing connectivity.  You would imagine that with breakthroughs in science and technology we would have become more enlightened and have been able to disseminate this information more effectively to the masses.  One would like to think that the population of Earth would be better informed and able to detect myths and fallacies.  However things are going the opposite direction.  The religions of the world are doing their best to confuse and obscure the truth from the masses.  They are actively attempting to sabotage and even shut down educational and scientific research programs in favour of religious teaching.  There are conspiracy based “concerned parents” clucking like Chicken Little over the sky falling about every little thing from drinking water, vaccines, what our food contains to GMO’s.  None of which is remotely a concern to anyone.  At all.  In fact, the opposite is true in every case.  They are rallying for a worse planet.  People who are free of disease, with a virtual limitless supply of clean drinking water, plenty of food and places to live. These people are actively attempting to reverse all of these by combating science and replacing it with prayer because that’s working so well everywhere in the world that this is the case.  So I am in the habit of trouncing this whenever and wherever it crops up.  I am also in the habit of finding myself on/in/under any or all attractive women I can find who are willing to do so with me.  I don’t know that this makes me excellent by definition but my fourteen year old self is giving me a high five.  Good enough.  Again, not sure if these are viable ways in which one gauges or qualifies themselves.  They are traits, but defining?  Distinctive, definitely.

Self improvement is masturbation.  Now self destruction is the answer.”  – Tyler Durden

from Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk.

I put effort into appearance.  For the sake of women.  For the perception of responsibility and competency.  The clothes often do make the man.  I go out of my way to present myself well.  I exercise as a matter of course for my current occupation.  I am in good shape.  I am no body builder but I am fit.  I am naturally attractive and I take steps to preserve and highlight my features in order to accentuate my natural allure.  I am man pretty.  So much so that as I have mentioned in the past teenaged girls have remarked on my appearance.  I don’t know why but I consider this a big deal, if young women still find you attractive then you must still have something.  This being said however, and for as much as I love being appealing, I think that improving yourself is mostly a self-indulgent exercise.  Not saying that you shouldn’t do it.  As I wouldn’t tell you not to masturbate.  However, this is all that it is and nothing more.  Now, getting to the heart and fun of things is when you tear it all down.  The act of ruin is what I excel at and infinitely more exciting.  There is something that becomes giddy and effervescent inside at the thought of binge drinking (possibly doing drugs, I won’t lie) and sleeping with random women.  Like the thrill of throwing yourself out of a perfectly good plane.  Or perhaps more extreme such as Russian roulette.  In any case the thought of going so wild I might never come back sometimes is all that gets me through.  Life is so dreary, it requires chaos from time to time, otherwise what really is the point?  I am not entirely certain how this defines me though I am certain that it does in a fairly big way.

 

I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence, by James Elroy Flecker.

It saddens me that poetry is a dead artform.  I blame slam poetry.  I blame New York.  I blame the same people who are watering down our education system.  Don’t get me wrong I love a good rapper, KRS-1, Mos Def and Eminem are all extremely talented poets.  There are also many others who are very good except to be fair a resounding majority of rap is murdering english and making people at large moronic.  So is pop-country.  Not country music, pop-country, there is a huge difference.  Merle Haggard is alright, Johnny Cash knows what’s good.  This modern bleating that is essentially pop music with a steel guitar and a twangy voice can fuck right off.  Also to be fair to everyone else my poetry wasn’t the finest.  I was a blend of Pablo Picasso  and Salvador Dali in English free verse.  I would sometimes blend words for evocative imagery and flow rather than logic or even cohesive ideas.  I left meaning to the reader sometimes at other times I lead the reader and if they didn’t follow I didn’t care.  Once a poem is written my concern with it’s perception and interpretation is over.  So when I say that I was Picasso/Dali I am not boasting, I mean that I adapted these philosophies and techniques, their style and attitude and applied it to words in English and did so quite organically.  Poetry used to be a very large part of who I was.  For a time I was inspired to write and I am the very picture of the tortured, struggling writer.  It isn’t that I don’t have the ideas, more really that I hate them and by extension myself for them.  I don’t doubt that they are better than a majority of what is out there but I hate myself before I even write them down.  I do not take even constructive criticism well.  When I am actually proud of my writing if someone doesn’t like it I pretty much think that they should die instantly for being the stupidest person ever.  I’m actually not kidding.  Not even a little.  I wouldn’t dare to believe that I am a poet.  Or that it is even a badge that I wear.  I’m not published, it is hardly a defining feature.

So who then, am I?

Lonely Morning:

Like shadows christened in your kiss, a gesture only you could know, like sighs that follow laughter.

A winking eye captured in darkness, like squinting at intruding light which rapes the wholesome breath of day. Clouds are forming in your brow, the cigarettes that follow sex; in this we share a single truth.

Lie to me; I prefer your hasty words. I’d rather that I didn’t know what wrinkles lines into your lips. Drying saliva marks your neck with glossy memories of me, which last much longer than the moisture.

Christened shadows awoke your kiss to sighs I breathe into your flesh. Is this the truth we share? Only to hide it from ourselves with lies? You are the sighs that follow my laughter, the sex I smoke away.

Dysphorian, original. Age 16.

My pale, languid sixteen year old body made a canvas of several girls and spat forth this.  Even then a lover and thinker.  Perhaps I was pretentious or a little bit too ambitious.  Maybe I was ahead of my years in so far as my experiences and reflections.  Who can know?  All that we can know is that it is obvious that I was gifted, troubled, alone and hypomanic. I keep hearing from people that I can’t let my disorder define me. This is horribly unhelpful advice. In many ways it’s at the very core of who and what I am. My compulsions, reactions and impulses fueled by it. And I own it. I’m not ashamed of who I am anymore than a leopard is ashamed of its predatory nature. I am what I was genetically predisposed to become. I am raw potential and capability. I am an alpha. An apex predator. So when I hear people complaining to me about my nature, about my behavior. When I hear people telling me that I need to fit in, I feel like a wolf being asked to fit in with sheep. I was born resplendent. So why relegate myself to mediocrity?

So who am I? How am I defined? By what significant feature am I marked? My journey. Upon reflection, what might be considered an identity crisis was only a perspective readjustment. You see, the definition of self isn’t a static picture. No person is ever complete as you are perpetually working toward a more complete you whilst discarding aspects of yourself no longer useful to you. Identity is a process. I am defined by my struggle, so in a way I actually am my disorder. Jack is as much me as Dysphorian. This is not to say that I’m good where I am or that I’m done. Far from it, I have lengths to go and many more trials yet to face. I am defined by the obstacles that I face and how I react to my challenges.

In short dear reader, I am a leopard. The spots won’t change that’s true and I will still be a stealthy and cunning predator. Though I may have to adapt to a new environment to learn to overcome. Accept that I might no longer be the apex predator in these parts and maybe even learn to work in a group in order to survive.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack’s Rusty Cage and Swift Vengeance.

Things did not go as planned with Sylvie.  She decided to cancel and so there I was, frantic!  How was I going to satisfy this deep need to validate myself through sexual expression?  First I laid it on fairly thick in a hypomanic frenzy to see if she might not be willing to move some things around in order to accommodate our coupling.  Kind of crappy move, but this woman holds a special place in my mind as the “one that got away”.  No change and I think I only upset her a little bit with my continued flirtations and persistence.  I recognize this to be childish and more than a little pushy, not the kinds of traits I normally attribute to myself.  I normally don’t assert myself to women, I usually take it as it comes.

Now what?  A brief respite in the form of a visit to a female friend.  Married with kids, I have no intentions of being a pervert here.  She has other company in the form of an attractive female friend who is preparing to move some three thousand miles away.  I think that this might be interesting except for the fact that she almost immediately stonewalls me.  ME!!!  I’m used to women feeling one way or another about me but no matter what I get a reaction.  From this lady I get less than nothing.  She is a social flatliner the entire duration of my visit.  It bothers me immensely.  Especially given that I had recently had my validation bid canceled.  Things start to get dangerous as my fragile ego begins to crumble.

The next day I return to the major North American city in which I lived for around six to seven years to visit my friends.  I stay with my best friend from high school and college roommate, Damon.  With the wife and kids it’s a full house and the children are happy to see me.  I just adore them, he has a daughter, five and a son who is two.  They are delightful.  Roiling inside me however is this itch that I have not yet scratched and a massive bruise to my self-esteem.  I fire up tinder and start getting hits.  I score myself a date for Friday night when I attend a friends music show.  She seems like a super nice and really cool woman, we chat incessantly through texts like giddy high schoolers and make stupid jokes.  In the meantime however I have caved completely and the cage door has fallen off of its rusty hinges.  The teasing and promise of attention has finally pushed me into a hypomania.  Jack steps out from his dusty cell and appraises the situation.  Date on Friday, but there is still Thursday night old bean and you need to get naked with something.

Jack takes the wheel.  I tinder harder and faster, I start something that I like to call “A swing and a miss”.  When I get a match with a woman the first message I send is something inappropriate or shocking.  Something like: “You look like a good kisser, want to meet up at a secluded booth in a seedy bar and make-out?”  Or: “You don’t really seem like the one night stand type.”  The idea with these is as the name suggests, you are going to strike out for almost all of these.  Except that when you don’t… Well, you sir have found a fuck partner.  If she responds to these type of bold and outrageous advances she is likely to engage in meaningless sex, guilt free.  Sure enough I get a few hits but one stands out.  A musician and vocalist, aged forty one but surely that’s a mistake and she entered her age wrong.  She doesn’t look like she has gotten too far into her thirties let alone forties.  She looks younger than I do and I look young for my age.  We chat, she isn’t into my proposal initially (that we meet and have sex).  After a time however Jack butters her up well enough that she is intrigued and agrees to meet for sex.

We meet at a pub in the gaybourhood as she lives nearby to there.  I ask her if there is anything about her I need to know, is her address indicative of anything?  She says no.  Good, no penis.  When she comes into the bar and touches me on the shoulder to get my attention I turn and am actually shocked.  She is better looking even than her pictures and has an aura of fuckability all about her.  Seductive eyes and a nice soft sultry voice.  I drop my glasses from my pocket while moving from the bar to the table so dumbfounded I am that I am fumbling.  Not normal for me at all.  Jack gets me to the table and starts the conversation.  She is undecided whether or not to proceed.  We share stories about our past relationships and find that we have had some similar experiences.  She tells me that she has done this once before after she got out of a long controlling relationship in order to liberate herself sexually.  I totally comprehend.  I do not judge, it isn’t in my nature.  Here I am looking to score, how could I judge?

I ask her if she is really forty one.  She confirms that she is and I tell her that can’t be true, she looks younger than me.  She disagrees, I insist and point out that she has no crows feet whereas I do, a little.  I think she is a little flattered but ultimately doesn’t care.  She is comfortable with what she is and she isn’t accepting my charm as leverage in her decision to mate with me.  Jack realizes he is dealing with a genuine woman and sees what tactically needs to be done.  He releases his control over me temporarily.  I behave as a normal Dysphorian for the next half hour or so.  It comes to decision time as we finish our third or fourth drink and she signifies her acceptance by gifting me with a kiss.  We pay and leave.

Jack swoops in for the main event.  Once inside her place I use the restroom, upon returning from my visit she stops me in the hall and we begin to make out.  Deep beautiful kisses flooding me with dopamine and approval.  I have my drug.  If I thought that she looked young clothed I was in for a surprise.  A pleasant one, so don’t you worry.  Once nude her body resembles that of an endowed twenty-four year old volleyball player.  Her breasts have not sagged in the very slightest, they are high and taut.  I would think that they were fake until I felt them.  They were not.  Everything else about her is smooth, well-curved perfection.  We proceed to roll around on the top of her bedclothes without bothering to pull them over us, fully naked in one anothers coital embrace.

The next day after I return to Damon’s place I put in a text to thank her and offer a similar treatment upon my return to the city.  She enthusiastically accepts, assuming that she is unattached.  I proceed to nap and plan my evening at my friend’s music show with the next lady.  First I go to Damon’s place of work, a fine dining restaurant and throw back five cocktails.  Jack is still driving for some reason, but why?  Didn’t he get his fill last night?  After this I meet with a long time female friend and mutual friend (former musical partner) of the evenings host.  Trixie and I have a great conversation and some fried tofu and yam frites.  Jack has two more drinks.  At the venue I meet Daria, my date for the evening.  She is bright, vivacious, energetic, beautiful and fun.  We hear the music, and Jack has more to drink.  Jack kisses her right there at the table in front of my friends.  No sense of propriety at all, he does as he pleases and if that bothers you, well… that’s a you problem.  Eventually Jack gets so abrasive that he says something off-putting to Daria that has her change her mind about being out with me.  She decides to leave.  I chase after her.  In my mind I feel the need to explain to her or apologize, make it clear that I didn’t mean whatever Jack said.  Maybe she could see that I wasn’t that guy and she might decide to return.  This obviously fails and only makes me look like a douche who is desperately trying to stalk a girl for sex.  So not the case, but the lesbians in attendance will not see it that way.

Oh, Trixie is gay and married to a woman.  Many of her friends that are there are also gay.  So now I just look like a misogynistic clown who feels like he is owed sex… Sweet.  But wait, there’s more!  Jack then proceeds to flirt with anyone and anything that will listen to him, yeah…. Well done, ass.  They are all lesbians and they already don’t like you right now.  Fortunately another mutual friend steps in to save the day.  She literally throws herself into my line of belligerent jerk fire.  She takes some of the hit but then redirects me to the burrito joint next door with the company of a gay male friend who is actually a really handsome guy and some bitchy little troll-woman who won’t shut up about the fact that I brought a tinder date with me.  Whoa!  Wait a minute… how does she know this?  It isn’t as though I was advertising it… Not that it’s any of her damn business even if I did, I mean who is this fucking thing?  She is fuck uglier than a burnt corpse and giving me hell for having a date that I procured via electronic means?  Listen burnt-troll bitch, you can’t get a date… Just shut the fuck up, nobody cares and you aren’t going to shame me for using tinder.  Seeing as she is here with a woman who is literally saving my hide I don’t tell her off.  Jack is gone, diplomacy is a sure sign that he has no more control.

 

So that’s how my hypomanic outburst ruined the fun for many of my friends and made me a total shit-disturber.  Not cool at all.  Jack’s revenge for keeping him bottled up for so long.  Fuck that guy.  I would hate him more if he wasn’t totally effective at times…

Edit:  This entire blog is intended for me so at times clarification is overlooked.  Jack, for the newer readers or people who haven’t read back is Jack McBastard.  This is the name I have given my hypomanic tendencies and is not actually another person, persona or personality nor is he my attempt to shirk responsibility for my part in anything that I have done.  I am fully aware that I am squarely to blame for my behaviour.  I have since spoken to Sylvie and there is a very solid chance that we may yet reunite for a tryst or two.  I apologized for my persistence and borderline aggression.  I genuinely feel terrible about that, it really isn’t my style.  If I don’t get what I want I normally drop it and move on, I can always make good elsewhere.  As it turns out I am far more attractive than I realized, Jack is far more charming, Dysphorian is very genuine and the combination is nearly irresistible.  My self-awareness teeters on arrogance coupled with the self-justification so common in the cognition of bipolars that we are often confused as narcissistic personality disorder types.  I almost suffered a small amount of cognitive dissonance upon discovering that I was in fact attractive… I had lived so long assuming that I was average and attempting to determine and gain self-worth by sleeping with as many women as possible, something that has rather become habit and still hasn’t gone away.  Not that I would want it to.  Women are amazing.  I would have a Frank Sinatra breakfast everyday if I could.

Hairdresser On Fire.

I’ve alluded to her in the past, my hairdresser, the one who I was flirty with when I started my relationship with Zoe has always been a crush of mine.  We are always a near miss, on our way into a relationship when the other is out.  Well this time I have my fingers crossed.

Things did not work out with the other lady I was dating.  I kind of blew my cool for what I thought was a fairly legitimate reason.  Now I don’t think I’m out of the running entirely but even if I am I am totally not sweating it.  I still have a tryst to attend when I go visiting here on my week vacation and now it looks like the hairdresser could be moving back into the picture.  We will call her Samantha.  So she and I have always had the open hots for one another, never so much flirted as simply stated: wow, too bad you aren’t single, I would totally scoop you up!  For real, just blatant, no fucking around, spit-it-out, statement of fact.

Last night I did karaoke.  I am also a really good singer.  I’m not just tooting my own horn here, I went with a group of seasoned musicians and vocalists and my first song was “Sober” by the band Tool.  If you aren’t aware of this band or it’s vocalist Maynard James Keenan, he is debatably the most talented male rock vocalist alive.  His only challenger might be Matt Bellamy of Muse.  With the company I had, experienced in music and knowledgeable I wasn’t sure that my chops would make the grade.  Sure enough when I got back to the table after thunderous applause I got a huge round of congratulations and compliments.  One statement being: “When I saw that you chose Tool I thought ‘Wow, is he really going to try to sing Maynard?  Is he crazy or stupid?’ but then you got up there and did it and man… I was blown away! Good job!”

I was really touched by this reception.  Not only because these people know what they are talking about, but also because they are a new group of budding friends.  They are people that I am growing fond of and close to.  But I digress.  The lady who runs the Karaoke happens to be Samantha’s best friend and I know this.  So I approach her after nailing a few Killers songs.  I say to her: “You should say hello to Samantha for me.” with a wink.

She and I, let’s call her Rachel, end up having a good long conversation.  She doesn’t like Samantha’s boyfriend, which she knows isn’t a good sign for the relationship.  She gets super friendly with me and likes me a whole bunch, which indicates that Samantha would last a while with me.  The night carries on and all goes well, my group closes the place with a quartet of “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

The next day I go for a haircut.  Normally when I go for haircuts my stylist, Samantha joins me in my car for a cigarette.  She does today as well.  We talk and because I’m hung over, turned on and giddy I don’t even veil nor attempt to make my flirting even a little discrete.  I say things like: “I am so glad you wore jeans today, I can’t keep my eyes off of your bottom.”  To which she replies with genuine enthusiasm: “Thanks! I haven’t felt good I’m glad someone thinks I look good!” Among other things that were less lewd like how pretty she was etc.

We talk excitedly throughout my haircut, light flirting included and at the end she doesn’t charge me.  I insist but she doesn’t yield so I graciously accept the free haircut.  Sexiness has its perks.  Throughout our conversation she did partially confirm that things were not going well with her guy and in so doing I laid it out there that I was available and willing as she already knew.  I felt a little guilty but really… I should have been with her instead of Zoe.  Zoe was a mistake that I should have abandoned for Samantha.  I even said to her that I wasn’t attempting to give her incentive, I was simply reminding her that we’ve missed the opportunity twice now and we haven’t stopped flirting since we’ve known each other.  There’s something to this.  As I’m writing these very words she is telling me how handsome I look these days through facebook messenger… Wow, we are in this thing deep.

As she is getting done work she messages me to tell me that she is going tanning.  We chat a bit and she invites me to join her though she doesn’t have much time.  I go.  I get 9 minutes of stand up because my tan is just about where it needs to be and all I really need is a maintenance.  After I get out I wait for about a minute and she comes out looking glossy and fuckable in yoga pants.  She has such a bubbly and vivacious attitude I could just grab her right there in the middle of the tanning studio in front of the ugly people and show them what pretty people look like when they mate.  She drives me totally wild.  She has curves.  I love it.  She isn’t big but she’s also not petite.  She certainly has something I could put my hands on both up front and on the bottom.  She has the best wavy, wild, full volume brown hair, the brightest blue eyes, her whole person lights up when she speaks.  I am smitten.

She will be mine.  Oh yes.  She will be mine.  In the meantime I have Sylvie to make sweet fuck to.  I’m looking forward to rectifying that little lapse in performance.  The woman is gorgeous and since Zoe I’ve been lacking any real activity.  I’m in my thirties as attractive as I’ve ever been and feel more now than ever like my best before date is approaching…  I want to let my freak flag fly and I am kind of stuck in the middle of nowhere with few options other than to mine my facebook for past lovers, which is pathetic, it’s like a crackhead raking through the carpet looking for a rock to smoke (something I’ve been privy to sadly). Yeah, Tinder is sparse, Plenty of Fish may as well actually be populated with REAL FISH.  It’s pretty bad out here as I’ve mentioned in past posts.  I do better than most out here and it isn’t all that grand.

Let’s hear it for hot hairdressers!

Great White Buffalo

During the winter right before my wife left me I reconnected with a high school sweetheart at my wifes work of all places.  My wife worked as a barista at a locally owned and operated cafe in her small city where I met her as a teenager.  Where I also met this woman, we’ll call her Sylvie.

Sylvie and I originally met at the catholic school I had been attending there in that small city.  I was only attending it because it had superior academics believe it or not and all my friends went there.  Sylvie and I shared a home room and morning advanced English class.  I sat directly behind her and I used to tease her.  But not in the mean spirited, rude and pugnacious way that most ignorant male teenagers do.  In a legitimately cute and forgivable, charming, misunderstood genius, witty and broody kind of way.  I sold this really well by being a total smart-ass and well liked by the teacher, who would call upon me whenever he needed an answer to prove a point.  The kind of answer that tells the class ‘you see? this stuff isn’t impossible to grasp, one of your peers is following along, you should be able to get this too!’  Yeah… I was that guy.

So I was sitting pretty, literally.  Soon enough she was joining me after school to hang out on the couch at my mother’s music store which I worked at.  There was one problem, she had a boyfriend.  He was short and had a stupid nickname to reflect that fact.  I’m not normally an overly judgmental man but he was beneath her.  He was controlling and stifling, he had very little to offer (not that I had much, I was 16 or 17), wasn’t terribly clever and hung around with go nowhere, violent losers.  I understand the appeal, I had and have been similar at various points in my life due to bipolar.  Alas, I clean myself up and move on, knowing that there is better out there for me.  I was angsty and broody.  I was artistic and idealistic.  I liked to drink red wine and write poetry.  I fancied myself a renaissance revivalist (I was a pretentious and ambitious little shit).  I had all kinds of appeal to a teenage girl.  I was actually good friends with my future wife around this time and she was very similar to me in these regards, except she never outgrew these things…

So one afternoon fading into evening on the couch at the front of my mother’s music store I am making my move, about to kiss this gorgeous girl still wearing her school uniform.  Suddenly BAM! A huge explosion of noise right beside my head.  Sure enough, her boyfriend is outside watching us just about to share a kiss.  She gushes apologies and dashes telling me to lock the door when she leaves.  They go without a hassle but I do lock the door anyway only because this is my mother’s store and I don’t want anything to get ruined or have the police involved.  It burns me up inside that I was cheated out of the sweetness of her lips.  My blood is boiling at the thought of her touch and how it doesn’t belong to me.  My stomach is rolling over imagining her with that repugnant squirm of a man.  I wonder then as I will wonder several thousand times before and since why such amazing women choose literally the MOST pathetic, disgusting, useless and in all other ways horrible men.  It is a recurrent theme.  There is no such thing as perfect, if there was I’m not it, but even with bipolar I’m vastly better than most.  It seems like most women are TRYING to find the biggest loser that they can.  No joke.  Anyway, this is neither here nor there.  I’ve been that loser for at least a half dozen or more women so I shouldn’t talk.

For a short time she avoids me.  I don’t see her in home room.  I hear rumours about how he hit her and make vows about how I will bury him in the woods.  A week goes by and she returns.  Apparently she was only sick it just so happens that it was really poor timing  (I personally suspect that this was around when she had an abortion).  She is single upon her return and seems sad but resigned.  At first she doesn’t seem herself but after a time she opens up.  We become quite attached rather quickly.  I’m an anxious horny teenaged boy but not totally insensitive so I don’t push too hard for sex.  I suspect it’s this lack of killer instinct, this adherence to empathy and compassion that is the reason that I haven’t quite made it to triple digits.  I used to think I wasn’t very attractive, apparently it’s my self-sabotaging behaviour more than anything that drives women away.  I’m too nice and not pushy enough at times.  I’ve since learned to put my needs ahead of my manners when the situation requires.  I can thank Bukowski for this.  So I take it way too easy, we make rude jokes and I get the feeling that she is more sexually charged than I am.  Good to go.  Eventually I do push it.  She tells me that she doesn’t want to.  Oh, okay.  All that sex talk and jokes about blowjobs was just that, talk and jokes.  Okay, I’m a teenager so I am a little confused but I’m respectful so I back off.

I have to move back to my hometown, a slightly larger city about an hour away.  Ouch.  I have no license and no car.  This is relationship death for teenagers.  We manage to keep it going for a time.  I visit by train and she even talks her parents in letting me stay at her house so long as I sleep downstairs.  The next day her family goes to run errands.  She brings me up to show me her room.  She sits me on her bed and starts kissing me.  She tells me that she isn’t wearing a bra.  I immediately check to see if she is just teasing me.  Nope.  She slides her legs under her blankets and her skirt comes flying out a second later.  I am erect.  She invites me to join her on the condition that I lose my pants.  I take the deal.  I touch her through her panties.  I still remember every detail of her.  Now here’s the thing, I’m not an endowed man, I am average.  Like, perfectly so.  Yet she was tight.  I had difficulty getting situated and once I was due to being a teenager and so excited I think it took me about 2 minutes and I’m being generous.  So tight.  I marvel at it because it made no sense.  She wasn’t new to this, I wasn’t large and still it was like pushing a sausage through a fruit loop.  I would be pleased with this if I hadn’t been looking forward to a session.

I know that you are thinking, how good can a teenager be in the sack?  Well, funny that you are first asking that question to yourself in your own head, but second that I heard it and am now going to answer it.  Right around this time I had recently been in a relationship with another girl my own age and we used to have mutually satisfying marathon sessions.  We would frequently have sex wherein I wouldn’t even need to recock after an orgasm.  Often lasting several hours at a go.  So to have this disappointing short session with Sylvie was embarrassing, yet she seemed to expect it.  It occurred to me later that maybe this is what all of her sexual experiences had been to this point.

We had a similar situation at my place in my hometown when she came to visit me.  Shortly after this due to the distance we slowly tapered off and dissolved completely shattering my heart.  I really loved this girl.  I had written poetry about her.  I was a lovesick little puppy, it took me 9 months to recover from the loss of her.

Almost 20 years later I’m married and sitting in my wifes place of work enjoying a mocha latte, when I look across a narrow aisle from my plush leather chair to the couch.  Thereupon, sitting with a girlfriend is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.  Drinking a tea that my wife just delivered to her.

“Sylvie?”

“Yes? Oh, but… Dysphorian?!”  Her face flushes immediately and her eyes light up, she cannot hide the fact that she is excited to see me.

We speak only momentarily but I get her business card and gather that she is recently separated.  It makes no difference to me at the time.  I’m married and quite happily so at that particular time, I’m just so blown away to see her after such a long absence.  My heart has a room set aside for her with a candle lit in vigil for her.

My wife leaves me and a few weeks after that when I come to pick up my stuff I ask Sylvie to have lunch with me.  She does but she shoots me down very hard and in the most firm and polite way.  She leaves me with the impression that I will never talk to her again.  We become friends on facebook I suspect so that I can torture myself later.  Her reason for denying me is that she doesn’t want to be inappropriate with regards to my wife, seeing as we just separated she feels as though it is disrespectful.  I see her point and conceed, kind of… But I counter that she did leave an emotionally distraught bipolar depressive a week after a valentines upon which he spoiled his wife, even wrote her a poem…  She thinks this is cute yet sticks to her guns and I am glad she did really.  I was being bipolar and seeking validation through sex.

Summertime rolls around and I find myself staying with some friends in that very same small city once again.  I get to messaging her on facebook about how I would like to see her and bring her a tea.  She agrees, I do.  When I arrive with the tea she is puttering around cleaning and preparing to go to the cottage that night.  She is wearing a low cut flowing top and tights.  Her legs, cleavage and ass are all beautifully on display and looking almost exactly the same as in high school, in fact, she might actually look better.  At first the conversation is slow and awkward.  Sooner or later we come around to the fact that I am very attracted to her and she to me.  We discuss vaguely the possibility of us and she makes it clear that we can’t have a relationship.  Still I get the feeling that it doesn’t end there so I mention that I am not local.  Nobody knows that I am here so they don’t need to know about our business.  I make a metaphor about how if you have a craving for a food item you just go the grocery and buy it and nobody cares.  She understands.  The whole time I am helping her clean things in her kitchen.  Eventually I tell her that I just need to go and that it was good to see her cutting my visit short abruptly.  I make sure that this seems obvious.

About an hour later I text her something to the effect of: “I’m sorry, I had to go.  I think you knew exactly where our conversation was going and you were so sexy that I just wanted to take you right there on the kitchen table.  I figured with your sons upstairs that would have been inappropriate.”

She replies: “LOL yeah, I’m glad you showed some restraint.  I will be at the cottage tonight by the fire, why not join me there when the boys go to bed?”

Game on.  I pack some drinks and she sends me directions.  It’s very late when she finally gives me the go ahead.  When I get settled by the fire I drink at least two beers, we walk down to the water and back to the fire.  We talk.  I feel like an awkward teenager again.  It takes me more than an hour to make my move but when I do… It isn’t fireworks, it’s more like an ordinance stockpile and a pyrotechnics load being lit up all at once.  In the conflagration we manage to bust a hole clean through to hell and the fires of that unholy pit smother the rest of the universe so that there is nothing left but us and we are the two hottest, most powerful deities remaining, floating in a void of our own.  Her body is a stradivarius and I am a concert violinist.  Her mouth is the sweetest, softest thing I have ever tasted, her tongue dancing in concert with mine, flitting about my own lips and alighting momentarily on her own at just the right times.  If kissing was a sport this woman would make the olympics.

Eventually I ask the question, where do we go to have sex?  The boys are in the one room cabin.  She points into the dark and says one beautiful word: trampoline.  I love that word, because it starts with tramp and ends in a good time no matter what you do with it.  Unless you’re the poor sap who hurts himself.  Sadly…

This is where the story gets terrible.  I had only recently started taking most of my meds so an erection seriously wasn’t in the cards… Pathetic.  I put extra effort into going down and foreplay but I think she was upset and self-conscious about my utter refusal to get erect, thinking that perhaps it had to do with her, maybe her stretch marks?  I can say that it certainly did not have anything to do with her.  She was lovely.

Things got very awkward after that.  I bailed the heck out of there.  I tried to apologize through facebook messenger, she accepted but I got the impression she was being polite.  After that I tried commenting on the odd things on her wall to stay mildly relevant but would be met with mild hostility so I backed off.

Until today our conversation begins in reply to a wall post where she began redressing me publicly for stating that there are plenty of men that she overlooks (it was one of those picture posts about there not being good men, blah, blah, blah…):

Dysphorian: Why do I upset you so much? I actually know a fair few things but that isn’t what I am getting at. My point here is really that there are excellent men who crawl on broken glass to please you, if only you let them in. Yet you antagonize them.

Sylvie: I’m a Gemini lol

Dysphorian: And I regret nothing more than not being there to put my face in your crotch and then make you crepes

Sylvie: Omfg

Dysphorian: You’ll have to be more specific. It’s true what I say. I really feel horrible about my last horrible kick at the cat… My medication screwed me over. But you know what I think of you and that I would love nothing more than to pamper you.

Kissing you is one of the best feelings I’ve ever had.

Sylvie: Oh Dysphorian ,,,,, never worry about that … And that’s a good line how many times have you used that one ;))

Dysphorian: Sylvie, do I seem like the line type to you? Really? I just told you I would like to put my face in your crotch… Sometimes I am refined and sometimes I am blunt. I use what comes to me. You know that you are my great white buffalo. You have a very special place in my heart. Besides which you are just plain sexy as fuck. I still dream about you kissing me over your shoulder by the fire. That was particularly exciting.

Sylvie: White buffalo? Lol really

Dysphorian: You have seen Hot Tub Time Machine yes?

Sylvie: Omg yes. Magical things happen and hot tubs LOL.\

Dysphorian: You’re the one that got away, you’re my great white buffalo

Sylvie: Ohhh

Haha

But in that movie that white buffalo was actually a bum ass

Dysphorian: She turned out to be a bitch, yes… but that doesn’t mean that’s what they all are

Sylvie: Lol I know

I’m a fucking nightmare lmao

Dysphorian: How so?

Sylvie: Noooo just an angel

;))

Dysphorian: what are you doing sunday through tuesday?

Sylvie: Hanging out with my kids

Dysphorian: you should create some space for us to make out.

orrrrr… have coffee…?

Sylvie: Make out ? You know I like to fuck Dysphorian.

Dysphorian: Ah, okay, then it’s settled.

Sylvie: Or I guess coffee. Less mess

Lol

Dysphorian: seriously.

Sylvie: Hahaha

Dysphorian: worst case coffee, best case sexy times… set a day and time.

Sylvie: When r u around ?

Dysphorian: From sunday noonish to wednesday morning

so monday and tuesday nights are best

Sylvie: Okay we will have to see it would have to be after 8 PM

Dysphorian: I’m totally okay with that.