Sol@$$

Sdtrack
Alt. Sdtrack
Alt. Sdtrack II



The girl waves at me. She's older than me.
I could force it. Like the Lego block that has the wrong tab, or the chair you bought from Target and assembled, but the plastic molding has a defect.
But, then, I am tired. Uninterested.
She's not worthy. Not nearly hot or young enough. She doesn't have big enough tits or a big enough ass. Her face shows the years that life will take off of a woman as she's begun her slow decline into unimportance because her looks have faded and her personality lacks the collateral to make you overlook this tragic yet unavoidable flaw. 

I sat nearby while this guy running what he thinks is game on her. He had the lines, the words...but his delivery was pure swill. Pure drudgery. Lines he thinks sound awesome when he says them in front of the mirror while he shaves before going out for the night.
The kind of guy that bangs a hooker and tells himself (and believes) she'd do it for free.
He struck out, and now she's ready for the professional.
She's had a taste of the minor leagues. She wants the sugar. Not the fuckin' calorie-free diet artificial sweetener shit.

She's seen my clothes. The way I dismissed the guy when he tried to be a smartass at my expense.
I was preoccupied looking masculine as fuck and texting a buddy who's abroad for my work so he'll get the anecdote when he gets back stateside
.
She's seen and wordlessly felt the way I set my hands on a table, the way I get up to answer my phone, the way I run my fingers through my hair. The way other girls motion in my direction as they talk with a head nod to a friend or a long stare across the room.
Fucking performance art when I decide to bring on my A game.
The silent cues that I am almost nothing like the rest of these fucking clowns out here hawking their wares like the resentful, desperate children they are.

All the non-verbal cues make her body ache. She doesn't consciously know how deep it reverberates...but her subconscious knows how my hands will feel wound around her neck. How my fist will grip her hair into a ball as I grip her thigh and press inside from behind.

Earlier, I got dressed. Not dressed up. Pure masculine. Hair pulled back. Thin shirt. Off white. Buttoned down just a bit. sleeves pulled just up to my forearms. Fitted jeans. Simplistic and understated but perfectly executed. I look good and it oozes out of my every motion. Not the false bravado of a guy who thinks he deserves pussy b/c he's wearing a suit. Just the marriage of masculinity to clothing and experience and living the life of a real man.

I headed into the night with no expectations just a few beers by myself. Far from the voices of other people, far from the expectations of everyone. Just a man, alone, drinking beer. The thing I hate most but still come calling for every now and then....like I once did with women.

Moths to the flame. They hated me and loves me for what I did to them. Hated the sway I had, but loved the sick wrongness of it all. That I made a girl who had been so good for a lifetime...that she was my whore. My girl on the side. That she, somehow, still, wanted me back as her man.