Featured Fuck – Dimming the Neon Sign; A Lesson in Wanting it Less and Getting it More

Posted: October 18, 2011 by Esteban in Featured Fuck
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Its eight o’clock on a Saturday night and my roommate James and his buddy Brett are pre-gaming in the kitchen. They have the whole night ahead of them and yet the tone in the room is that of impending doom. I sit down to join them for a drink and James asks: “So what have you got planned for tonight?”

“Oh you know some drinks, some sex, the usual,” I say with a smirk.

“I fucking hate you.” Brett says.

For single men and women in their twenties, a night out poses the same possibilities of excitement that Disney Land does for a five year old. Like the climb up Space Mountain, the thrills that a drunken genital collision have to offer are bountiful and if one bar doesn’t have what you want there’s always another around the bend. Unfortunately for this dynamic duo, their nights have been more like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride: setting off to nowhere in particular, down a bumpy road where every journey ends in a deafening crash of comical destruction.

“How many drinks do I have to buy a girl for her to go home with me?” Brett asks no one in particular and James shrugs his shoulders taking another swig of whiskey.

I reach over and pour myself a glass and the feeling of the warm brown liquid coating my throat reminds me of a story….

It was winter and I’d thoroughly warmed myself up with a couple of hot totties at the Thirsty Crow in Silver lake. Me and a friend were drunk to the point of sexy pseudo lesbian dancing and possibly making out later when I noticed a guy sitting alone at the end of bar staring at me. He was very cute but his stare was like a hawk zeroing in on its prey and it was giving me the creeps. Only moments later, the bartender waved an arm in my direction and handed me what I can only assume was a Jack and Coke.

“From the man at the end of the bar,” he said.

“No thanks,” I said

We resumed our dancing and though I thought I wasn’t interested I couldn’t help but make quick glances to see how my rebuttal had been received. The potentially creepy man seemed unmoved by my rejection and as I continued to casually keep tabs on him I eventually realized that he was not alone, in fact he had a gaggle of young girls and guys lingering close by that all seemed to know him. What had first appeared to be a man on a mission to get laid ended up being a guy who didn’t need the company of a lady but had actually singled me out because he wanted me. He smiled and laughed, ordering a round for his group and I began to feel like the one being spurned. Slowly that sensation of creep repulsion began to blossom into fierce desire.

When Odysseus set sail on the high seas and got all those sexy witch ladies did he bring along a single sailor? When Romeo went to the Capulette ball was Mercutio his only plus one? Going out with a group is essential. Sure there’s the occasional hot loner who gives off the big dick gotta have’em vibe, but he’s a rarity. Having a group of friends with you is the best way to camouflage your true intentions and avoid looking desperate. Some may say that toting around an entourage can be intimidating to others, but if played correctly the high energy of having a large group around can provide the perfect opportunity to take that special someone by the hand and say: “Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?”

After our drink in the kitchen the boys go off, they might as well be carrying a neon sign that says: Two Dudes Looking to Bone, and I settle in for a peaceful night of fucking. Hours later, I’m in post orgasm slumber when I wake up to the sound of ditzy giggles and heavy footsteps. I walk out into the hall to find Brett pacing the perimeter of James’s bedroom door. He stops and stands by like the bouncer of a club, just then James comes out to consult Brett.

“It’s not fair! I can’t believe this happened again!” Brett says.

“I know man, I know.”

On the surface the odds seem like they could go in either guys favor: they’re both in peak physical shape, both intelligent and well dressed but James is quieter than Brett, less extraverted and not as willing to go out of his way to make introductions. Brett, who appears to have an unending surplus of money, buys rounds like it’s the last day on earth while James sits back and watches. And in the end after Brett has put in all the muscle in hopes of getting that special muscle wet, it’s James who reaps the reward. His secret:

 

“I don’t even want her, I don’t even care,” James says.

 

Brett stamps his foot like a child, “This just doesn’t make any sense!”

Or does it?

On the quest for pussy, after all the misadventures and failed attempts there comes a point where rejection sets you free. After getting enough doors slammed in your face ambivalence begins to set in and that’s when things get interesting.

Now I have no clue how many times that guy at the Thirsty Crow had been shrugged off but the moment he gave off the air of giving up and not giving a fuck I wanted him. So I did what any drunk, horny liberated young woman would do: I danced more and more scandalously, edging my way towards his end of the bar until I bumped right into him, literally. I got him to buy me another drink, this time he wasn’t nearly as willing which only enticed me further, and we got to talking. By the end of the night I was ready to jump him and then he asked if he could take me out sometime.

“WHAT? HE DOESN’T WANT TO TAKE ME HOME NOW?”

My mind was reeling, he was classy and restrained. He didn’t seem to even want to sleep with me it was almost as if he was asking to go for coffee and get to know me like we were two virgins saving ourselves for Jesus.

I HAD TO HAVE HIM.

Every girl is constantly being ogled and sized up for sexing. We all walk around expecting you to try to get us naked and we’re both bored and sometimes even slightly repulsed by it. But when we come across a man who isn’t just looking for a warm willing body, we wanna throw ourselves at him; we wanna be pinned down and pummeled.

A patient man is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

BY DANIELLE BAUMAN

 


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