I'm an Ivy Leaguer and a top-ten law school grad. But, those are NOT the accomplishments that make me the most happy when I reflect back on my life. Let me explain. When I was younger, I was shy. I mean REALLY shy. I couldn't talk to a good looking girl if my life depended on it. I was just too painfully shy. So, in high school I studied hard, pulled a lot of all-nighters at my little homework desk in my bedroom, and did all the things you're supposed to do. I was just hoping that if I did something overwhelmingly impressive it would somehow change my situation with women. All the hard work led me to the Ivy League.
The girls at my university weren't overly impressed with this since they had also gotten accepted there. So, that was a bust. I then went directly to a top-ten law school.
I learned a lot about the law there. But, I didn't really learn anything about how to get dates. After graduating from law school, I returned home to Utah where I now had zero friends and even less chance of meeting women. But, I did have those fancy schools on my résumé. Unfortunately, that was basically all I had. I had no idea how I was going to turn that into interest from the opposite sex, but I was going to do it or die trying! I didn't know it at the time, but that journey would turn out to be one as big as the academic journey I had been on for the last decade.
Years later, after I had gone a long way down this road, I took a trip to Costa Rica with a buddy. On the plane, I sat in my chair and jotted down outlines of all the key events that made up that journey into the world of women and dating. I'm going to tell you the first of those stories later in this post. If people like them, I'll tell you the rest of the stories in later posts on Steemit. The story I plan on telling second is probably the most entertaining one. But, I have to tell you this one first so that everything makes sense.
A FEW PRELIMINARY NOTES
My Identity
These are real events that took place in my life and the women involved are real women who are out there right now living real lives. I'm going to be describing things they did that they probably don't want their families, friends, co-workers, and current significant others to know about. People who knew either me or any of these women when I was dating them could probably pretty easily figure out who is who if I were to reveal EXACTLY who I am on Steemit. So, I'm not going to tell you my full name or post a big headshot which will make me super easily identifiable. If anyone really wants to confirm my identity or ask me any questions about any of this in private, I'll be happy to do a google video hangout or something and tell you who I am exactly. I just don't want EVERYTHING about my identity to be out in the open for the sake of the women involved in these stories. A bunch of them are married now, and it wouldn't be fair to them.
R-Rated
These stories are going to be NSFW in terms of what I'm writing about. I would say they are going to be more R-Rated than NC-17. I'm not going to be giving you labored detailed descriptions of genitals in motion or anything like that. But, there is going to be sex involved. It's not something I would hand to my mother, but I wouldn't care at all if acquaintances came over and saw it on my coffee table. There won't be any NSFW photos or anything like that....but there is sex going on in these stories. Also, I was moderately to heavily intoxicated for a lot of these events. So, bail now if any of that is something you can't handle.
Inclusion of Technical Notes on Dating
I have left a lot of notes in these stories about how I actually got these women to go out with me. Most of them take the form of dialogue, messages sent back and forth, or thought related narrative. For some of my friends who have read these stories the level of detail on these points is too much and boring. Some others have finished wanted even more details on the how-to part of it and have encouraged me to leave those notes in the stories. So, those things are still in the stories. Just skip them if you don't think you will be in the dating pool anytime soon and don't have any interest.
One more thing
A while back I tried to put a few of these stories out there on a subsection of a few forums related to a sport I follow. I can't remember how many of these stories I put up, but it was two or three or something like that. They were well received, but I don't think more than maybe a hundred people ever saw them. I also created a small blog where I put those stories together for my friends to read them. A bunch of my friends were present for these events and they were always amused to hear my retelling of these stories. Even so, I think probably only a handful of my friends ever saw the blog. After some number of months of the stories being up on those two forums and on the blog, I was in the pipeline for a few jobs that involved really in-depth background investigations and polygraphs. This included investigating my lifestyle and social behavior. So, I decided to take the stories down from the forums and I killed the blog. It's unlikely that anyone here will see the stories who remembers them from way back on those forums, but I wanted to put it out there just on the off chance. If anyone does fit that very small demographic, we can do a google video hangout or something and I can convince you that I'm the same guy who posted them back then.
ENOUGH OF THAT! LETS GET TO THE FIRST STORY!!!
Okay, here we go:
I was at my moment of greatest victory. I had just accomplished a goal so great that it had been all consuming and nearly the only thought in my mind since I was 10 years old. I had spent over a decade working for this goal and had sacrificed almost all of the normal teenage experiences in the name of this quest. For me this was the holy grail. It was my young life’s work. This changed everything. A whole new phase of my life was starting tonight. One I had worked hard for….and richly deserved. I was laying there letting the afterglow of this triumph wash over my entire body. I was so happy, almost restless. I should go out on the balcony and yell at the top of my lungs. I will silently count down from five, and then slowly rise victoriously and stride out into the crisp night air. The music from that opening battle in Gladiator was playing in my head.
Five...four...three...wait. What's that fucking sound? A warm inviting sound. It was the sound of a hollow continuous impact. Something light hitting something heavy. The sound of water...running water...almost like small marbles being poured on cardboard. Wait a second...no fucking way! I peel open one of my eyes very slowly. The room is dark, but I can see through the slit in my eyelids in the direction of the sound. You have got to be kidding me. There she was...so incredibly sexy...a curly haired blonde latina with succulent big impossibly perfect tits, a small waist, and a super nice ass...still looking hot as hell...wearing her beautiful pink cocktail dress. God knows how much she spent on that dress. Whatever it cost her...it was worth it...but right now it was hiked up around her tits and she was squatting in between the hotel bed and the wall dividing the sleeping area and the bathroom. I looked down at the carpet between her beautiful legs. There, a nice puddle of liquid was quickly absorbing into the thick soft floor. The warm flowing water sound was the sound of this unbelievably sexy girl...still half-drunk and half-asleep with her eyes completely shut...sleep-pissing on the hotel carpet. The feeling of victory receded from my body like a retreating ocean current. Yelling out in victory on the balcony was now a distant memory. I was going back to sleep. Maybe this was just a bad dream. I shut my eyes and thought back on how I came to be here. How did I end up in a fancy hotel room watching a super sexy chick in an expensive cocktail dress sleep-pissing on the carpet? What did this have to do with the greatest victory of my life? Both questions require a little explanation.
Many people think that the United States is a religious country. That is not the case. The United States—America as we like to call it to the exclusion of our Latin American and North American neighbors—is not a religious country. It is a work country. Our real religion is not Protestantism or Catholicism or anything else that people normally do on Sundays. It is work--the real American religion. We believe in hitching our own perception of personal value to “what we do.”
Work is all defining and all consuming in the U.S. We work a lot. More than Japan, more than Germany...we are the world’s ultimate bee hive full of ready and eager worker bees. When you meet someone in the U.S. the first piece of information they collect from you is your occupation.
From a social perspective it is an absurd characteristic of the world’s richest society. But I, like most Americans, recognized it when I was very young. I used to watch TV...a lot of TV. From a very young age, maybe kindergarten, I was stricken with the most cursed of social ills…extreme shyness. TV was my refuge. It didn’t require that I approach others and get that jittery, frustrating, electrified butterflies feeling in my stomach. It was a way to experience social interaction without having to deal with that stifling suffocating fog of shyness.
All that TV taught me one thing: the kings of American social life, the ones who are never shy are the ones with the great jobs. I realized the best way to compensate for my crippling shyness was to be something. In my 1980s TV environment, everyone was a doctor, lawyer, cop, or private detective with a thick mustache like Magnum P.I. or Simon & Simon. I knew I hated math, so doctor was out. I first settled on cop, but found out that cops and “private investigators”—if they even really existed outside of divorce lawsuits—made terrible money. So lawyer it was.
A good 20 years later, I found myself about to attend my first work party. I had spent the last two decades ensuring that I would be something so impressive it would compensate for my fatally crippling shyness. I had worked my ass off in junior high and high school and gotten into a top Ivy League university. Then I had worked my ass off in college and got into a top 10 law school. Then I had worked hard in law school and gotten into a job at a decent paying firm in the town I grew up in…Salt Lake City.
So there I was in my mid twenties and getting ready to go to my firm’s winter holiday party. I had sacrificed much and now it was time to reap the rewards. Freud was right…it’s all about fulfilling those caveman mating instincts. The reward I had been working toward was female company...hopefully as much female company as I could handle.
The only problem was how to harness my new role in society as a well-pedigreed lawyer to overcome this shyness problem and gather up my due rewards. This prospect was a little scary. As a kid, when I started on this path towards becoming a lawyer, I just assumed you did will in school and the beautiful women sort of appeared and fell into your bed. But then I actually became a lawyer and started looking around. I realized that most lawyers were not true alpha males. They actually were high wage earners to compensate for their lack of alphaness, not alpha males because of their salaries. Sadly, the generally mediocre but not terrible looks and personalities of their wives, girlfriends, and other assorted mating partners reflected this half-sad reality.
The second I processed this observation, I was instantaneously and irrevocably struck with terror. What if the lawyer with the beautiful woman was really just a TV myth? What if we all just became highly paid limp-wristed geeks who only attract mediocre women despite our big paychecks? Basically, I was afraid women weren’t as shallow as my TV world had painted them. Was I staring into the abyss of oncoming unavoidable hopeless disaster? Was the grinding, impossibly difficult work in high school, the Ivy League, and law school all for nothing?
I hadn’t done all that work for nothing. There had to be something I could do to leverage my status as a lawyer, that the other lawyers, the beta males with the mediocre women, had not discovered with their limited inside-the-box mentalities that plagued the legal profession.
It didn’t take long to realize that the solution to my work party date problem lay in how attorneys present themselves to women. We look better on paper than in person. But, we still try to present ourselves to women solely in person without laying the proper ground work in writing.
This was not yet a solution. I couldn’t exactly hand out my résumé in bars. Besides, it wasn’t just the credentials. The job just showed them I could provide for them and any potential offspring—the modern evolutionary equivalent of stone age protection from marauding animals and rival clans. I also had to convince them that I was fun to be around. This second part of the equation is near impossible when you are shy. I knew all too well that a shy nervous person is not fun for women to be around.
I was actually fun to be around, I thought, but no women would ever be able to tell that upon meeting me because I was so shy and nervous until I really got comfortable. By that time, they would have been long gone...big lawyer salary or not.
There was only one possible solution to this horrible double problem—the internet. On the internet, I could brandish the full power of my top 10 education and position as an attorney. Defender against marauding animals and rival warring tribes.....check. On the internet I could also get them to communicate with me over e-mail or text based on their interest in my profiles on various social media sites. This would solve the nervousness problem. At the time, long before the days of match.com and eHarmony commercials on TV and Tinder on every phone, I saw it as a crimson letter of shame to be on a dating site, so regular social media it would be.
I built a profile based on everything I knew about women. It had a bunch of lame pics of me (from all the right angles) doing things that showed: 1) I could protect them, and 2) being a part of my life would be more fun than their current life. I showed myself skiing, camping, surfing, fishing, and training in another sport. I also sprinkled in a few references to my job and education, and made sure the profile overall looked right. I hoped this covered all my bases, and I would later find out I was more right about that than I had ever imagined.
I had gone to school, found a good job, and kept myself in good physical shape. The next step was to find the sexy chicks that all this preparation was all about. I was already on social media sites, so this part was easy. A simple search for age, relationship status, and location brought me all the female profiles I could inspect.
Soon, I found the profile of a big breasted latin girl with long curly blond hair, a nice ass, and no discernible source of income. Perfect. Her body looked vaguely like that of an ever-so-slightly-thicker 20 year old Britney Spears. Her curves would definitely make her a ticking meat bomb when she got older, but at that moment, she was in her prime. She had the kind of firm curvy body with not even a touch of cellulite or sagging that no woman over 30 could ever have. She was all too close to being the kind of poor man’s Shakira that I was looking for.
She was also an online attention whore. All the other dudes in Salt Lake had noticed her pics on social media too. She had well over 300 friends who conversed with her regularly and it looked like about 97% of them were male. It was obvious she loved their clumsy ineffectual fawning over her. She was surrounded by virtual clit riders and loving every second of it. She blogged two sentences and the clit riders would immediately follow it with 25 comments. If she posted a pic, she would get five “damn girl!” comments and seven “you look amazing!!!” remarks in 10 minutes.
This was not going to be as easy as sending her an e-mail saying, “I like your profile, check mine out and let me know if u want to talk.” She probably got 50 of those per week. I had to stand out. I had to be different...I had to insult her. All the clit riders bathed her in a constant flow of compliments. The only way to be different and get her attention would be to make her question this cocoon of ultra positive pseudo-reality that the clit riders had built around her with their constant ass kissing.
So, I began my web based war of attrition. I was a one-man brigade engaging in civilian psy-ops against an army of clit riders, and my only weapon was the truth, or at least my propagandized version of it. If she posted a pic of herself in tight white pants, the clit riders would comment on how good her ass looked. My comments would mention how tight her pants looked. To the casual observer, the two comments are the same. But, to her, the clit riders’ comments were a source of body image validation while my comment made her wonder whether she was gaining weight. My war by comment continued this way until she began directly responding to each comment I posted. I was a crack in her firm and cozy cocoon of self-validation. She had to fill this crack. Pretty soon she would write to me before she even posted a pic or a blog to tell me that she knew I would criticize her for it, and ask me if I could just “be nice this one time…like the others.” I always said something like, “No...you prefer my honesty over their transparent ass-kissing lies.”
After about a moth of this, she wanted to meet. I am sure she thought that in person she would be able to show me a little cleavage, maybe a little leg, maybe look me in the eyes and bat her lashes, and my critical attitude towards her would suddenly crumble. I would start complimenting her like all the rest. She would fill the growing crack in her self-validation cocoon.
I put off our meeting for a few weeks. I knew any one of her clit riders would have done a Yakuza style finger sacrifice for a chance to go out with her. So, I had to do the opposite. I told her I didn’t know her well enough yet and she could be luring me into a man trap. Maybe she was an axe murderer or even worse...a tranny. Nothing against transsexuals. They're just not on my dating radar. She was immediately pissed over the last comment, and didn’t message me for about three days. When she finally did come back, I feigned half-hearted regret over my transsexual comment. With that resolved, she recommenced the full court press towards a date.
I didn’t consciously know it at the time, but I would later learn that as much as women are attracted to this sort of push-pull manipulation of their emotions, they have a certain threshold for it. If you pass that limit, they get too frustrated and give up on you. Luckily, I at the time somehow did sense that it was time to actually meet this girl before she got too pissed and gave up.
So there I was standing in the street wearing my best suit and waiting for her to meet me and be my date to my law firm’s formal winter holiday party. We had never met and only spoken on the phone once to arrange the date. I had never met a woman from the internet before. This was going to be a big experiment to see if the internet really was the savior of my dream of finally converting all my hard academic work into the getting of the sexy chicks.
She drove up in her Toyota Prius about 20 minutes late. But, she was wearing a super sexy and perfectly short pink cocktail dress. She was looking damn good. The dress was tight in all the right places. Her body looked impossibly curvy and tight. Her pics didn’t lie. I thought of the Shakira song.
We met, and as I would find is always the case with these types of encounters, it was like hitting the reboot button. All my social media messaging work would mean nothing if I couldn't back it up right away in person. I said, “hi” and introduced myself. I thought, “God, if you have ever listened to me…listen now…please give me the strength to say all the right shit so that I can bend that fine ass over the hood of her Toyota Prius and do terrible/awesome things to her later on tonight.”
I'm not religious or a believer at all. But, I was definitely looking for all the help I could get. All my psy-ops and internet propagandizing had only gotten her here, now I had to prove to her I was alpha enough to protect her (in that caveman providing security sense) and also more fun than her normal life. She jumped in my truck and I made small talk. I tried to seem calm, but I was panicking on the inside as I felt an iron curtain of shyness start to descend over me in the face of this sexy ass blonde latina in a short cocktail dress next to me.
I was completely unprepared for this girl in person. I would need help. A lot of help. I scoured my brain….who could help? Could I call my friends at home? No, too obvious. Plus, their suggestions would all amount to something like: “Just put it in her mouth, you pussy!!!” Gentlemen they were not. My coworkers once we got to the party? No, they would move in and clumsily try to swoop on her themselves, all the while cock blocking me. No, at a time like this, I could have only one true, unwavering, ever-loyal ally: booze.
As soon as we got to the party, I discovered two things: my boss, tuxedo and all, was already well into what I will call “full party mode” and my date wanted to get a few drinks as badly as I did.
Her: “Just an FYI, I’ll probably drink you under the table tonight.”
Me: “Unlikely, but if it's true there’s only one way for you to prove it.”
I ordered up two long islands at the bar. I couldn’t believe my good luck. Not only was I going to be able to get hammered with no objections from her, but she had just made it clear she would too. This girl weighed 120 lbs max, so there was no question who anyone thought could drink more. But, her false bravado was the perfect fiction to allow us both to stem the potential incoming tide of awkwardness that could wash over our little date at any time.
We drank the two long islands and the iron curtain of shyness lifted considerably. We each drank two more and any sensation of nervousness or shyness was gone from my body. I was myself and the conversation flowed like it should have from the beginning. I told her how athletic, smart, fun, and funny I was and she agreed. Pretty soon she was kissing me on the neck. I realized we were both drunk. This was perfect. The only problem was that this was not a dark corner of some house party.
We were at a black tie event at a table with partners from my law firm. My date was not a controllable drunk. She was loud and inapropropriate with her curly blond Shakira hair & features. But, she still looked sexy. She wanted to dance, so we danced. She wanted to get our pic taken, so we did. She inexplicably tried to knee me in the balls. She missed, and I started to tell her she could leave, and she stuck her tongue down my throat. I realized this girl was spoiled, immature, and a bad drinker. But, surviving the hurricane of destruction became a worthwhile goal when she whispered in my ear, “I’m so wet for you right now.”
At that point, I knew all I had to do was wait out the party and take her home. We sat back down and I talked to my coworker next to me. He told me everyone was pretty impressed with “your girl’s dress.” I told him I had only just met her two hours ago. He was more impressed. I was pretty pleased with myself and turned around to see what she was up to. The gravity of my pleasure was instantly interrupted by the image of my date trying to French kiss my boss's wife. I let out a startled laugh, grabbed her by the arm, and told everyone at the table it was time to get her home.
I took her to a nice downtown hotel in a cab. Driving us myself was completely out of the question at that point. The hotel was necessary since she lived with her parents. In the lobby she started yelling about how she wanted to go out to another bar. Every bar in town was already closed, so I playfully picked her up, hoisted her up on my shoulder, and carried her into the elevator. She was playfully protesting. Two 40 something business men, obviously coming back from the bar themselves, saw this scene and looked at each other like, “What the hell's going on here?” I told them she was drunk and needed to sleep. Even though I was hiding it better by stumbling around less, I was more drunk than she was. She was just willfully displaying her drunkenness whereas I was deeply focused on hiding it. My slightly slurred speech (which I couldn't hide despite all my concentration) must have told the two businessmen all they needed to know. As the elevator doors closed with us in the elevator and them still in the lobby, I could see the look of low grade concern fade from their faces.
As soon as the doors closed to seal us in that familiar vertically mobile box of isolation, my previously out-of-control date, who I had intended to put safely to sleep up in the room, suddenly couldn’t keep her hands off me. She went straight for my belt buckle. I grabbed her hands to keep her from undoing my pants. I was worried about security cameras and wondering if they kick people out of the hotel for elevator blowjobs. She protested as if it was somehow her entitlement to determine whether my pants resided at my waist or on the floor.
To keep her busy, I pulled her upright and held her tight to me by her ass. She objected, “I want you in my mouth” as if it was a foregone conclusion. I didn’t say anything but lifted up the bottom of her cocktail dress. Any security guard watching the cameras probably wouldn't raise hell over that. She instantly stopped protesting, looked straight in my eyes, and then gave a faux-shy glance downward. I knew what she was asking with her eyes. I touched her. She hadn’t lied earlier about being wet.
Once we got to the room, I picked her up again and fell into the bed with her. She grabbed me and tried to slide me inside her. I stopped her and put on a condom (no way I was knocking this crazy bitch up). We started having sex but neglected to take off her dress or my shirt. It was that good-crazy sex until I started to feel something on my arm. It was warm and a little wet and WHAT THE FUCK!?! She was biting me really hard on the arm. I pushed her mouth off my arm.
Me: "Why are you biting me?"
Her: "I'm a vampire.....hissss...put it in my mouth!"
Me: "HELL NO! No more biting, okay? If you do it again, I'll stop."
Her [frowning]: "You're no fun."
She started slowly thrusting on me again as if to signal that there would be no more biting. I went along with it. After about 45 seconds she tried to bite me again. I was still on guard and pulled my arm away. Then, I pulled my entire upper body away from her. She started thrusting even faster to keep me from stopping. It worked. I kept my upper body well away from her she-wolf jaws and after a few minutes she seemed to forget all about biting. She finished and then I finished.
I laid there in disbelief. This chick was crazy. What kind of adult lures people into bed and tries to fucking bite them? Thank god I didn't let her take my pants off in the elevator. I might have ended up with teeth marks in my joint. But, more importantly: I HAD DONE IT! I had figured out how to conquer my shyness. Despite her craziness and apparent appetite for flesh, she and I would sleep together many more times over the coming months (I just never let her drink around me again). But, the real victory was that I had created a blue print that I could use over and over again to make contact with sexy chicks online, get them out on dates, and then effectively convince them I was fun and an alpha male. I would just hope they were more sane than this first internet girl.
For the time being, I had finally reached the end goal of all the sacrifice and all the hard work. I had converted all that academic achievement into the attainment of beautiful women. I was finally the victor after a decade plus of bitter struggle. I was enjoying this moment...until I heard that soft hollow warm sound of flowing water in the hotel room.