Unrelenting

I picked up a rental car the other day, and when I turned on the radio, the last driver had it on some pop music channel. The first thing I heard was some rappers singing, "I'm sexy and I know it." I'd never heard that song before, but it might as well be my theme song.

Let me introduce myself: I'm Larry Morrison, and I'm one of those guys you love to hate because I'm good looking and socially attractive. I knew by the time I was in my sophomore year in high school that I was better looking than the other boys in my school. You know how some kids are popular and some aren't? Well, I was always popular, and what impressed me was I didn't have to do anything to be that way. I wasn't a stand-out athlete or anything but guys just seemed to want to hang out with me. And as for the girls . . . well, let's just say that I never had a problem getting dates.

And it wasn't just girls in my own class. Even girls in the upper classes started to pay attention, and it was a horny senior who took my cherry. She also gave me a great introductory lesson in sex, one that I was able to put to frequent use throughout my last two years of high school.

I wasn't a particularly good student, but I sure learned a lot about girls during my four years at good old Harriman High. The first thing I learned was that there was no need to go steady with one girl when there were so many others out there. As a result, I became quite a player; whenever I dumped one girl, there always seemed to be another eager to take her place.

The second thing I learned was always to take precautions. I got a hell of a scare once when one of the chicks I was poking told me she had missed her period. Suddenly, I had visions of my life changing drastically, and not in a good way. Fortunately, however, her mother didn't want her little darling to become another teenage mother any more than the girl did, and she arranged for her daughter to "go away" for a few days and get an abortion. Her Dad never even knew. Crisis alleviated, and lesson learned.

After that, I never trusted a girl when she told me she was on birth control. If she wanted to give me a blowjob: fine, but anything else and I was wearing a condom, no exceptions. My freedom was precious to me, and I made up my mind never to risk it again.

As I said, my grades were lackluster, so I wound up at a state college. That didn't bother me; I wasn't planning on relying on my education to get ahead in life anyway. Instead, I concentrated on the three P's: partying, pussy, and palling around with guys I thought might help me down the road. And it worked: I got rushed by the top fraternity on campus and was elected fraternity president both my junior and senior years.

As for pussy, if high school was good, college was the mother lode. I didn't have to look for it; it came looking for me. The campus was filled with repressed, horny young women who were just dying to hook up with a hot-looking guy.

Some days I'd just prowl through the student union. As soon as I saw a cute coed sitting alone having coffee, I'd plop down at her table and strike up a conversation. A lot of guys think you have to have a clever pick-up line to score, but that's not true. I'd just sit down, make some neutral comment about the weather or the coffee, and then start asking the chick questions about herself. Before you know it, we'd be deep in conversation. Just when things were going strong, I'd stand up abruptly and say, "I've really enjoyed talking with you, but I have to go now." When I'd see the look of disappointment cross her face, I'd add, "Why don't we continue things tomorrow night?" The girl would almost always give me her number, and when I'd call her, I'd tell her I wanted to find a quiet spot to resume our conversation, namely, my room at the fraternity house.

Once I had her in my room, the outcome was almost certain. All it took was a glass or two of something alcoholic, a little conversation, a few compliments and she'd be spreading her legs like the parting of the Red Sea. I got so good at it that my fraternity brothers gave me the nickname "Hound," and it wasn't because I looked like a dog. "Damn, Larry," my friend Willie told me one day, "when it comes to pussy, you're not just persistent, you're fucking unrelenting."

Another trick I liked to pull was to go to one of our frequent parties at the frat house without a date. I'd sit around sipping a beer and watching my brothers be getting drunker and drunker. When the time was right, I'd go up to some guy's date and tell her, "It looks like he's just about to pass out. Help me get him someplace safe where he can sleep it off."

She'd put one of her date's arms around her shoulder while I took the other side. Together, we'd walk him down the stairs to the basement where we had a cot set up. Once the guy was safely laid out on the cot, I'd walk his date back upstairs. Since she was usually already half smashed herself, it was no trouble at all to lead her back to my room. Another drink or two and the frustrated coed would be lying back on my bed with her knees bent in the air and my cock in her pussy.

Most of the time, the fraternity brother would wake up the next morning and never know anything had happened to his date. Occasionally, the word would get back that the Hound had made another conquest, and the guy would get pissed. But I figured if he wanted to keep his girl he should have been more careful with the beer. "Besides," I'd tell the guy, "I just made it a little easier for you the next time you take her out."

After a while though, I found that the pussy was so easy and so plentiful that it kind of took the fun out of it. Don't get me wrong: I was still as horny as always. But there were so many girls who were so easy that there just wasn't any challenge to it. Basically, I could get laid any time I wanted. By my junior year I could call any one of half-a-dozen coeds and ask them if they wanted to hook up. They'd come right over to my room and be stripping before the door closed.

Over time, what I came to realize was that the sex I enjoyed the most was the pussy I had to work for. Every now and then I'd run across some pretty little thing who wasn't ready to drop her panties at the first opportunity. These fell into three categories. The first was the natural beauties. Guys had always chased after them, so they could afford to be choosy. But I found that the way to get to them was through their vanity. All I had to do was to hint that something about them wasn't perfect and suddenly they would be falling all over themselves trying to get reassurance from me that they were as beautiful as everyone else was always telling them. Then I'd use my cock to pump their egos back up.

The second category proved even more difficult to bed. Those were the girls who were extremely intelligent and driven to succeed. They were in college to learn, by heaven, and nothing would divert them from that path. Their weakness, of course, was their intelligence, and the pride they took in it. They were always eager to demonstrate their mental capabilities, to show off what they had learned. I'd listen to them prating on, nodding thoughtfully while not understanding half of what they were saying. But eventually I'd turn the conversation to social mores and societal norms, knowing that these girls thought themselves above such mundane constraints. From there I'd shift the discussion to marriage and sexual inhibitions, and they'd be so anxious to prove they were above such constraints that they'd soon find themselves on their knees sucking my cock with great ardor. After we were done and I was leaving, it was such a kick to see the expression on their faces: "What did I just do that for?"

The biggest challenge of all, I found, were the dutiful daughters, the ones whom loving parents had instructed to save themselves for marriage, the religious rightwingers who made those silly pledges of chastity back in high school. They proved the most difficult, and for that reason I found myself eager to pursue them.

There was one sweet young thing whom I dated for two whole months my last semester. She was not only pretty but I could tell she was also hot as a firecracker. Yet no matter how hot she got when I petted with her, she wouldn't let me in her panties. I tried everything I could think of, but she was adamant: no sex before marriage.

The guys in the frat house began giving me a bad time about the situation. "Looks like the old Hound has lost his sense of smell," they teased me. Well, I couldn't let that go unanswered, so I decided it was time to pull out all the stops. I went to a costume jewelry store and bought a one carat cubic zirconium mounted in what looked like white gold. Then I went to a fancy jeweler and bought a box for the ring.

On our next date, I took her to a nice restaurant, and after we had finished dessert, I got down on one knee and proposed. Everyone in the restaurant went wild, none more so than the chick: she was almost hyperventilating. By the time I got her back to the dorm, she was putty in my hands. It took almost nothing to persuade her that there was no reason to wait now that we were engaged. She cried a little when I popped her cherry, but the second time she turned into a wildcat, biting and clawing in her passion.

When she dropped off in exhausted sleep, I got dressed and headed back to the frat house. Before I left, I made a point of picking up her panties and tucking them in my pocket. When I got to the house, I tacked the panties up on the mantle of the fireplace. The next morning, some wag had added a handmade sign: "The Hound is unrelenting."

That afternoon, I caught up with little miss former virgin in the quadrangle and told her I was having second thoughts and the engagement was off. She began to weep and beg me to reconsider. I told her I couldn't do that, but she could keep the ring as a token of my feelings for her. I wish I could have been there when she found out it was fake.

The next day, her roommate came to the frat house looking for me. I guess she was going to try to intercede on her friend's behalf. I wasn't there, but one of my frat brothers told me she spotted the panties on the mantelpiece, along with the sign. She turned around and stalked out of the house, cursing men in general and me in particular. What a laugh!

I don't know what ever happened to my one-night fiancée; somebody said she might have dropped out. But I do know that I had a lot fewer dates in the last few weeks before graduation. Whenever I walked into the Student Union or the cafeteria, there were a lot of pointed stares in my direction and hushed conversations. I guess the word about what I'd done had gotten around. It didn't bother me. I figured all that easy pussy was going to dry up anyway once I left college, so I might as well get used to it.

I already had a job lined up. I knew myself and my strengths and weaknesses, so there was never any doubt -- I was going into sales. See, here's the thing: success in sales is all about having the edge – better product, lower price, better delivery, whatever. But what happens when all those things are equal? The answer is that people like to do business with people they like, people they find attractive. And that's where I had the edge, and I knew it.

Don't get me wrong: I wasn't appealing to any gays out there -- I don't swing that way. But even straight men prefer to work with guys who are both visually and personally attractive. Don't believe me? Try looking it up on the Internet; there've been lots of studies to prove it. The bottom line is that more attractive people have an edge over less attractive ones. Don't like it? Tough shit, that's the way the world works.

Anyway, the father of one of my fraternity brothers owned a manufacturing business, and he was looking for a sales trainee. We met, and he wound up offering me a sales job when I graduated.

At first I was reluctant to accept because the company was as dull as dishwater. They made road signs – not exactly your next Apple Computer. But the old man must have seen my reaction because he pressed me. "Listen, Larry, it may not sound very sexy to you, but stop and think about it. How many stop signs are there in this city? How many street signs? How many speed limits? Now think about how many of those have to be replaced every year because of normal wear and tear, or because Aunt Agnes backs her Cadillac out of the driveway too fast and knocks one down. Road signs may not be very exciting, but we sell a shit pile of them every year."

His face was starting to redden; I could tell he was excited about his business. "Now think about our customers," he went on. "We sell to every state, county and municipal government in the region. Those are customers with deep pockets! And we're virtually recession-proof. After all, if a stop sign gets knocked down, it has to get replaced, regardless of how poorly the economy is doing."

He stopped to wipe his brow. "It's a relationship game, Larry. If you're any good at all, you can make a lot of money."

To make a long story short, I took the job, and I found out the old man was right: a guy with my attributes could do very well for himself.

I know what you're thinking: aren't big contracts like that done based on standard Requests for Proposal and sealed bids? Sure they are, but the specifications in the proposals aren't the only consideration. You see, the people in government are just like everybody else: they prefer to do business with people they know, people with whom they have a relationship. Sometimes if all other things are equal, those relationships can be enough to swing the deal. And if all things aren't quite equal, there are always special inducements that can be added to sweeten the deal, if you know what I mean.

So I set out to develop relationships with as many key players as I could find. At first, I concentrated on the State Commissioner of Transportation and his counterparts in the various cities and counties in the region. But I quickly realized that I was just one of many clamoring for attention. My looks helped me get my foot in the door, but there were so many other feet in there with me that I was just one of the crowd.

After watching a few contracts go through the process from the bidding to the awards, I realized that the commissioners weren't actually the key people in the game. Oh, sure, they were the ones who announced the final awards and signed the contracts, but they didn't make those awards until their staffs had reviewed everything from every angle. The recommendations of those assistants, I discovered, carried a lot of weight. So I started to seek them out – the assistant commissioners, the traffic engineers, the planning directors– and I began developing relationships at that level as well.

It didn't happen all at once, but after a year or two, we began to win a few more contracts than we had in the past. In baseball lingo, our batting average had gone up, and the boss quickly noticed that this was happening in the games in which I was playing. Pretty soon I had a nice bump in my salary with a hefty performance bonus on top. I also had a company car and an expense account that rivaled my salary.

Right about now you've probably assumed that the old pussy hound had settled down and become just another working stiff striving for the great American dream. Well, you'd be wrong, and no one was more pleasantly surprised about it than me.

Once I left the college campus, I'd assumed that my sybaritic lifestyle would be severely curtailed. I assumed wrong. It turned out that the city where I worked was filled with bars, clubs and lounges absolutely packed with nubile women looking for a good time. For the price of a few drinks and sometimes dinner, a good-looking guy like me could virtually have his pick of the available chicks. Soon my success rate was back up to my undergraduate levels, and the only times I went without a little poontang were the nights when I needed to catch up on my sleep.

But here's the funny thing: it didn't take long for the thrill to wear off of my sexual sorties. It was so easy for a guy like me that there was no challenge. To make the situation worse, the bars and clubs weren't exactly stocked with the hard-to-get intellectual types and the wanna-stay-a-virgins who made my last years of college a little more interesting.

But just when the world was too much with me, getting and fucking, as the poet might have said if he were writing today, I discovered a new prey rarely found on college campuses: married women. At first I thought I'd discovered a rich new vein of carnal intrigue. What fun to try to persuade a married woman to abandon her vows and have a fling between the sheets with a handsome stranger! But it didn't take me long to discover that a surprising number of the women in bars with rocks on their ring fingers were no challenge at all because they were actively looking for a lustful interlude with a hot guy.

It turned out that in many ways these wives and mothers on the prowl were even easier than the single women preening at the bar. The singles wanted to be wooed before they were screwed, and there was always the possibility of unpleasantness when it was time to leave at the end of a hot, sweaty night. The wives, by contrast, knew they had only a limited time to get their rocks off, and they didn't want to waste a lot of it on preliminaries. Moreover, I never had to worry about what to say when our coupling was over. They were usually in a bigger hurry to get out of there than I was.

But with ease and convenience came boredom. The pussy was still good (mostly), but there was no thrill to the chase. I could usually tell when a woman wanted me by the way she flipped her hair, licked her lips, or glanced at me from under hooded eyelids. Everything after that was just killing time until her legs were spread and I had breached her gates.

Yet I did have one experience that suggested I might have found the answer after all. One night I spotted a group of three women sitting at a table. All of them were in their thirties, all were good-looking, and two of the three were wearing rings. On a whim, I sat down at their table and started a conversation. Initially, they were wary, but I soon had them laughing and chattering away.

It quickly became clear that they were office mates on a girls' night out. The single one came on to me pretty strongly, slipping off one of her stilettos and rubbing my calf under the table. I politely but studiously ignored her, and after several failed efforts she gave up and headed over to the bar in search of other victims.

Of the two married women, one was clearly there as chaperone. She had come along to relax with her gal pals, but that was it. The second wife was giving off a vibe that said she might just accept a ride home with me if I played my cards right. I decided I wasn't in a card-playing mood that night and concentrated all my attention on the chaperone. The second wife began to pout and finally left to look for her other friend.

I kept it very low key with the remaining wife. We chatted and drank, and I kept her amused with little stories and funny incidents. After a while, I shifted the conversation and began to ask her about herself and her family. Soon she was telling me her whole life story, sharing a few intimacies along the way which she probably would have kept to herself if she hadn't had so much to drink. But I kept the conversation flowing until her friends were suddenly there, announcing that they were leaving.

I jumped in before "my" wife could speak. "No problem, ladies. Sherry and I are going to have another drink and then I'll run her home."

The other married one looked at her friend skeptically. "Well, if you're sure," she said.