Feed on

If you are a proud cad of impeccable lust, you’ll amass a string of lovers over your life.

The number of conquests is less important than the ratio of the kinds of memories left in the wake of your snakequake.

A well-pounded man will have accumulated tiers of experiences with the lubricous sex.

The Nostalchicks

These are the girls for whom you will occasionally have pangs of nostalgia, and regret for what could have been but was foolishly discarded. Your heart will swell bittersweetly lingering over a photo from a bygone prom, or when a girl resembling your former lover struts across your view.

The Starlets

She took you on a wild ride. You recall the adventures together better than you remember her name. You never felt more alive, but you were never in love with her.

The Ones

Every man has “the one”, but only a few good men have “the ones”.

The Fillers

Names, faces, vaginas blur together in a memory miasma of fading masturbation fuel. It’s enough to know you had these girls; exact details and oddly nebulous feelings don’t matter. Some were flings, some were one night stands, some were girlfriends. You bid your time with them to avoid solitude, to feel a part of the slipstream of normiedom, to have something to do, and to enjoy until someone better came along. Their role in hindsight was to feed your tumescent….ego. You don’t regret a single one of your nights (or daytime hikes) with them, but you may be surprised how little color you retain of those limbically locked scenes.

The Lessons Learned

You should have bedded a femme fatale or ten. She was wicked, manipulative, cold as ice, and impossible to pin down. She made a beta of you, and you never forgot it. Lesson learned.

The Sex Machines

When you came with her it felt as if a bolt of electricity zapped a region of your brain somewhere behind the eyes and below the frontal cortex. She fucked like it was her destiny to fuck, and loved no one, not even herself. You used her with delight, and hoped the dopamine hits would never stop cumming, but you knew they would one day. And when the intimacy stopped, you left lighter of spirit, ready for your next quest, not looking back. She had her purpose, and that was not to be any man’s muse.

The Forgettable Fraction

Here go the assortment of flings that you would not have missed if they never happened, but which in the aggregate give a minor boost to your self-image: the garbage hour pickups, the crazy chicks, the unhygienic ho-bags, the desperately lonely, the cutters, the broken industry girls, the chubster on the cusp of desirability, the plain jane with a hot bod who liked to snort bumps and cry herself to sleep at night in lovelorn despair, the unfulfilled housewife, the drunken 2am grope-girls whose faces are blank sheets but who leave tiny morsels of memory which flit into your consciousness now and again…the color of a tuft of pubes dangling like ivy over a glistening labia illuminated by moonlight shards through a bay window, the sudden warm smile following your effort to straighten the hat on her head, a delicate hand guiding yours to a musty place, a poem she wrote and recited cloyingly as testament of her sincerity, the graceless flaunting of a taboo orifice offered with an awkwardly charming solicitation, fingertips peeling apart moist flaps in darkness as soft smacking noises betray urgency, the hot flush of cheeks as you descend on her from above…

Maybe not so forgettable after all, now that you think on it.

They didn’t make you a better man; they made you a fuller man.

The First

You remember almost nothing of her but that bright summer day you biked to her house and saw her sunning herself on the front lawn, reclined ass-up on a foldable lounge chair, shimmering silky bangs draped over her eyes which were engrossed in a book. She looked up, blew a bang out of one eye and smiled so big and joyously you could have died right there. Her teeth were the sun, her face a vision, her skin flawless….but that ass, round and firm and pert…it was a miracle of perfect mathematical form. And you won’t know until later, sometimes much later when wisdom has carved your idealism into a workable shape, that The First was also The Last. It will never be like that again, cruel cosmic law.

The ratio of each category of romantic conquest sealed in your memory, which I listed above, should, if you made the most of your womanizing time on this earth, break out as follows:

The Nostalchicks — 20%
The Starlets — 5%
The Ones — 5%
The Fillers — 20%
The Lessons Learned — 10%
The Sex Machines — 10%
The Forgettable Fraction — 30%
The First — all of them and none of them

The key to a healthy repository of memories is to never stop adding to it.


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