Old theme, new treatment, I hope. Please remember to vote. I answer non-anonymous feedback. Satyricon
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I watched her from my big bay front window as she went down the street, and felt the familiar slow burn of desire start in the pit of my belly. She was a walking wet dream, perfectly put together, packaged in real tight shorts and a skinny tank top, and she was going to be second floor back for the next year, unless she wanted to lose her security payment. Doesn't matter how cute they are, they pay a good deposit up front and the contract is for the whole school year. I don't like to waste my time interviewing fill-in renters because someone's dropped out or decided to go live with their significant other. This one would stay though. She was serious under the sexy frosting, and had made a point of telling me so. She was motivated and highly ambitious, she said, and getting a good degree was the most important thing in the world. I'd solemnly agreed and she'd signed the contract like a good girl and given me a check.
She turned the corner at the bottom of the street and all I was left with was the memory of her cute ass swaying as she strode. Second floor back, I thought pleasedly. If she turned out to be friendly, then maybe I'd hit the gym a little, work on a few logic problems.
Huh?
I'm not an ambitious guy. In fact, if you were unkind, you'd call me a slacker. If I've got a few bucks in my pocket and there's a little fresh pussy waiting for me somewhere, I don't bother with much else. People call me lazy, self-centred even, and mostly I agree with them
So it's a bummer that my one talent requires effort to get proper results. Such a bummer that I don't bother much any more. When I was younger, sure: I used it to get to where I want to be. Now I don't want to be anywhere else, so I've stopped all that stressful shit, and just try to steer events, not push them. Even that's more work than I like.
Where am I? In the mid-west, dummy, where I've always been. But not where I used to be. Towns of less than a thousand people are too restrictive. A medium-sized college town, large enough for everything but small enough for comfort, is just fine. That's where I am. Set yourself up right and life will come to you soon enough, and the time you spent running round looking for it can be profitably frittered away with a little good weed, a little good wine, a little good music, a few good books, stuff like that. Maybe little Miss second floor back would want to share some down time with her landlord when we knew each other better. Most of my time is down time, and being laid-back and undemanding pushes buttons for a lot of girls.
I said I wouldn't mind if you called me a slacker. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
And the talent? Look at this way. Suppose you were born with stupendous hand/eye coordination and the potential to bat .800 in the major leagues. You'd be a pretty happy guy, right? And suppose you then discovered that raw ability isn't enough. If you want to be up there with Barry Bonds and the rest of them, then you have to train and practice, and practice and train, and eat a lot of shit with the coach screaming at you until you're sick to death of the feel of a bat in your hands. You need to be ambitious AND dedicated AND talented to make it to the Hall of Fame, right? I wonder how many potential Hall of Famers are flipping burgers for a living because they're missing the ambition and dedication. But that doesn't mean you can't have a lot of fun in the softball leagues.
That's my situation. Shit, not playing ball: I've got the hand/eye coordination of a starfish, but if I want to use my private talent then I have to train and practice, and practice and train. It's a mental gift, but for some dam' reason it doesn't work too good unless my body's in shape, and once that's done I need to get the old coconut in good working order as well. And on top of that I've got to want something real bad. So it takes a lot to get me off my ass, and even more to keep me off it.
I'm not being too clear...Might as well lay it out in a row. Right through High School everything was normal. I mean, I worried about the size of my cock, would I ever be sophisticated enough for Patty Dukes to agree to a date, was that a zit coming: typical stuff, until the day I got ambitious.
Don't ask me why I suddenly got the urge to go to college. Looking back, I guess the fact that Patty Dukes was planning the same thing had a lot to do with it; whatever, I woke up one day with a strange feeling that I ought to get in shape and work on my grades and plan to impress Patty, all at the same time. I recognize that feeling now. It's called motivation, and it's a dangerous tool in the wrong hands.
But once a kid gets the bit between his teeth there's no stopping. My Mom and Dad could scarcely believe it. The whole summer before senior year I got up early, jogged down to the 'Y', worked out, jogged back, hit the books till late afternoon, jogged down to the 'Y'... you get the picture? I didn't exactly gain or lose weight, but what I had kind of redistributed itself and firmed up pretty good too. I wasn't stopping traffic, but my social life improved a hell of a lot and I was able to stop worrying about size and concentrate on technique. That improved my rep too, and there were other fingerprints on my cock besides my own. Some lipstick as well. Not Patty Dukes' though: she spent summers with relatives at the beach and used to come back around Labor Day looking like about twenty-seven million perfectly tanned dollars.
Word got around that I was turning into your all-American scholar-athlete, and I discovered that thoughtful girls who relish intellectual conversation and deep thoughts leave lipstick traces exactly like cheerleaders do. They just want a more meaningful experience on the way. Fine by me. I can do meaningful real well when I need to.
It wasn't until the start of the school year that I noticed anything different. Hell, I didn't have time for self-analysis. The 'Y' and the books filled my days and my evenings were filled real nice too, and my nights were spent sleeping like a baby and recovering my strength. But as fall approached I began to feel that things were going too well. I mean, there were no hitches at all. Not anywhere. And when Patty Dukes blew back into town what happened made even an eighteen year old ego suspicious.
I can remember it so clearly. Even now the memory stirs me and I have to readjust myself and think cold thoughts, or else deal with the problem manually. Third day back in school and already teachers were congratulating me on the progress I'd made during the summer, Coach had suggested I go out for football, I'd found a cute little note stuffed under the door of my locker, and my Dad had suffered a brainstorm and bought me a used Ford Valiant. Very, very used, but the guts were in good shape and it did the job. Then the totally unexpected happened.
I'd hit the 'Y' after school to put in an hour on the machines. Boring as hell, but I'd got into the habit, and I'd discovered that mentally solving algebra and geometry problems while I worked out made the time pass quicker. Today though, I was thinking about Patty. The mindless, repetitive exercise had got me into a semi-trance and I was lost inside my head, working out the details of our conversation and how to handle myself. The scene became more and more real. Imaginary Patty was fascinated and wondering why the hell she'd never noticed me before and thinking that maybe she better make up for lost time. I had a sharp mental picture of her and it grew more and more solid until there was a kind of soft explosion between my ears and her image shimmered and faded. I came back to earth with a bang and realized that I was dripping wet, my arms and shoulders were hurting like hell and there was a small crowd gathered, looking at me with their mouths hanging open.
'You OK, Doug?' asked Sammy Knopfler. He looked kind of worried.
'Sure, dude. A little winded. I been working out hard, and you gotta expect some sweat.'
'Dude, you just pressed a hundred forty pounds eighty-three times without stopping. You gotta expect a little interest.'
'No shit?' I was a little startled myself at the news. 'I guess I was thinking about something else. I better shower before I start to stiffen up.' I eased myself off the bench and wobbled to the changing-room, my head still ringing.
Stiffen up is a mild phrase. The next day I could hardly lift my arms and my entire upper body was screaming for a lawyer. I had to ask my mom to drive me to school: it was that bad.
