THERE’S NOTHING wrong with being a hopeless romantic, it doesn’t make you any less of a man and trust me, I am all man. I’d like to think I have swagger, that essence of a man that has women aching for his touch whenever he walks into a room. It’s a quality that tells a woman that she has to have you even when she doesn’t even know your first name.
When I was a teenager, I snuck into my parents’ bedroom and came across my mother’s stash of romance novels when I should have been looking for my dad’s stack of porn magazines. If you ask me, my mother’s romance novels taught me way more about what women wanted than any magazine could. It taught me what women longed for but didn’t think they could get. What they didn’t ask for but craved.
Trust me I didn’t enjoy reading these books any more than I had to, it was all research. What these books taught me were the little things that made women swoon: the way a man’s pants hung from his hips, they loved abs, and the closer was the look you gave. If you nailed the look, you nailed the chick. It was never about the grand gestures or saying the right words, it was the energy you brought into the room. It was how you looked, stood and moved.
I put these habits into practice, and I got fortunate and became what you would call – a ladies man. Throughout high school and during my peak in college, I could have had any woman I wanted, and they all loved me for it. I was your modern day Romeo, and they felt lucky to be seen with me whenever we were seen in public and surprisingly, no let me correct that, it wasn’t surprising that not a single one was jealous that I moved onto the next one the following week.
I bet you are thinking that no woman was that naïve or that I’m exaggerating, but it happened. It’s not that the women were brainless, desperate or were weak-willed, they fawned over me because of not only how I carried myself but how I treated them. I was Lothario in the sack. I made them feel wanted and beautiful, and they were lucky to be with me.
They were fully aware I was not relationship material, and they were okay with that. None of the women tried to change me. Instead they desperately sought out those brief moments they were given to where they were adored, cherished and desired. I started off as a ladies man, but somehow I developed a reputation for being a ‘Man for Hire.’ Not to be confused with a gigolo or an escort but if that’s what you want to call it, then so be it.
My reputation lasted my entire college career, and it was some of the best years of my life, and I’m incredibly proud of saying that. I still miss it, and some days I find myself wanting to travel back in time to relive it all over again. Things were good then, no, things were perfect.
I’m speaking in past tense with words like was, missed, time travel as if it was no longer happening because it did end. All because of a woman. Damn her. I wouldn’t call it karma because what I did for so long wasn’t a bad thing, I made those women feel good – I made them happy about themselves.
You see, during my last semester in college I was at an Irish Pub near campus that all of the students went to in between classes and in the evenings and weekends. I was at the bar one Friday night hanging with my boys discussing my next conquest attempt when I saw her, Amy Garrison. She was the goddess in my Comparative Lit lecture. She was unattainable in the eyes of the male student body.
She looked back at me with bright, effervescent blue eyes and a fantastic smile. It was something about the way she flipped or played with her hair when she looked at me that had me weak. When she looked at me under those long, seductive lashes, I knew right then I had to have her. For the first time, my heart dropped, but I remained confident in myself. I was optimistic that I’d win over that seductress.
I also knew she was either interested or played that game. You know the one I’m talking about, the one where they try to get free drinks out of you by flirting, giving you hope that you’d get to nail her at the end of the night. I couldn’t tell which group she belonged to, but I was determined to find out.
I approached her with swagger and my ‘go to’ strut. When I got to the area of the bar near where she sat, I leaned on the bar top and asked the bartender for a scotch, neat. When he passed the glass to me, I gave her a sideways glance as I downed the liquid in one fluid motion. I cleared my throat to dissipate the burning feeling scotch always gave me as it slid down my throat.
I decided to just stand there and wait for her to come to me. Typically a woman would because they were tired of hoping that I’d approach them. Amy didn’t because she was too busy playing a little game of her own. She mimicked my usual actions and leaned over the bar exposing her cleavage and asked the bartender for another dry martini and ended it with a slow seductive tongue dance with the olive.
I didn’t know it back then, but she was the female version of me. In fact, she was better at it than I was. She had me at that little olive dance. It wasn’t until I had asked her from across our corner of the bar if she would like to dance did I know that it was going to happen with her.
“Sure.” She replied.
I held out my hand as I walked her to the open dance floor in the middle of the dimly lit bar. I choice the corner of the dance floor as it was the darkest part of the dance floor and I figured out of sight, out of mind. I was determined to win this little game we played, and I roughly pulled her to me wrapped my arms around her waist and held on tight.
At some point in the middle of the song, Amy and I stopped dancing in alignment with the beat of the song and moved to our own rhythm. The intimacy of holding her close had turned me on and pretty soon I was thrusting my hips at Amy making the bulge in my pants known. I started grinding on her roughly, and I held on to her buttocks so I could pull her closer to me as I thrusted at her. Pretty soon we were dry humping in the dark corner.
Something about her had me hornier than I ever been and I was thrusting at her roughly I managed to back her against the wall, and I had to have her. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around me as I lifted her up against the wall and she held on to me as I slammed my cock into her panty covered opening.
“Ugh…” She moaned as my right hand reached down in between and I grabbed her under her skirt. She was so wet. I grabbed the hem of her silk thong and ripped it off and stuffed it into the front pocket of my jeans. I wasted no time, and as hard as it was, I unbuckled my belt and lowered my fly with one hand.
I reached into my pants and pulled out my cock and roughly slide into her, “Ohhhhh.” She gasped.
“Ugh…you like that.”
“Wait, what if we’re seen.” She murmured.
“They can’t see us, it’s too dark. Besides, I don’t care.”
I thrust in and out of her as fast and as hard as I could go and a part of me did it because I was so turned on, and the other part of me wanted to win. My thrusts into her created a loud pounding noise that was lost within the beat of the hip-hop song that blasted throughout the building.
We ended up going home that night and pulled an all-nighter despite having an exam that upcoming Monday. That was pretty much it for me. That night was the night she nabbed my lifelong allegiance and devotion to her, and I became a puppet on a string; she was the puppet master, and she used her position well.
I was brainwashed and had developed a case of the ‘I think I’m in love’ – itis. I did anything and everything for her willingly and I was utterly in adoration of her. She requested; I gave. This went on for years, and we ended up getting married despite her party lifestyle while I stabilized and settled down. This continued up until a few months ago when I found her with another man. Not just any man, my best friend.
I doubted that this was the first time either, and I’m pretty convinced that she had her side activities the entire time we’d been together but I couldn’t prove it. All it did was leave me where I am now, bitter and alone. I needed and missed her. I’d rather be in a ‘half-something’ than in a ‘nothing at all.’ I turned into a desperate, hopeless romantic. If my college buddies could see me now; they’d laugh hysterically.