Nights Like This: Grinding Volume IIVLLXX

Sdtrack: "You taste like tear stains and coulda' beens.....hair balled up inside my fist...."

I sit and wait for my departure.

Fat people.
Old people in wheelchairs.
Kids travelling for sports competitions.
Families heading back from resorts to home or to see more extended family.
Professionals who travel every weekend.

I pay for my overpriced bullshit chicken caesar wrap, drink a Corona, and get some coffee.
I think about the guy I almost stomped at the bar.
This older chick was hitting on me, wanting to bang the new guy in the small(ish) town I was visiting.

I saw a tan, blonde girl with very nice hair with a friend.
I broke form and went for the upgrade.
I know, I know. The rules say when you upgrade, you nearly always fail.
A singularity in the form of my upgrade/bang of stripper no. 4 fucked up mystrict adherence/belief in the system, but more than that, I wasn't drunk and consciously decided to go for the gold.
I've banged enough women older than me to know that I wasn't hard up enough to settle for 2nd place this evening.
Besides, the evening was young, at not even 1am, and I knew there was time for a segue to another bar, the water, another location, whatever.
But again....some times you have to go for fucking broke and go hard or go the FUCK home.

She's eating out of my hand. She digs my style.
Some random dude placates the friend and she slowly starts to get the hint from the girl I'm talking to that she should make the most of what's his name hitting on her.

She digs what she's finding out about me.
She's painting the portrait with the little bits of information acquiesced.
Out of nowhere, her ex boyfriend appears.
He has a corn bread white as fuck dork ass motherfucker name.
I almost laugh when I hear it. I literally have to look away after hearing it.
He sizes me up like they always do.
But I beat him to what his brain's narrative is wrongfully concocting and extend my hand. I shake his hand and hold his gaze the way I do when hundreds of people are watching me doing my thing.

He turns a 1/4 of the way away and his man instincts acquired over thousands of years of confrontations in his bloodline correctly inform him to chill the fuck out and that I'm not the guy he was telling himself I was.
The girl notices, but as they are wont to do, she picks up on the tension. She doesn't want a scene and they bounce.

Such is the nature of the game. Besides, I'm up early to travel.

I drive home listening to classic Motown and call it a night.
I know that this is all money in the bank.

I remember the rule of 7 I proved time and again in college.
For every 7 women you approach, at least one will come through.
In college, I had it nailed down to about 1 out of every 2 or 3. Sometimes the ratio was nearly 1:1.

But the game grows cold. The age or the technology or the passive attention laid on them 24/7 due ot social media....who knows?

I have to also accept the true fact that social acceptance by peers is more important by young(er) girls.
I don't have friends with her friends. And I am no longer in the age bracket.
But as I don't fuck with chicks who dance on bars to "Call me maybe" on Monday nights, it's not all fortune lost and doom and gloom.

But, fuck it.
This is part of the process toward mastery in any field: The Motherfucking Grind.

This is what separates the good or the kinda good or the never were from the "Great".