My name, or at least the name you're going to get, is Chance.
Some men worship money. Some of them, liars that they are, claim to worship women. Most really worship some twisted mythos passed down from ages ago and simply use that to get the money or the women they claim to desire so.
Me, and honestly again, I worship luck. Chance. And it was something I found out early on in my life, that it is chance, rather than a set destiny, that makes or breaks you. Some men (and women) are born on the easier, better, richer side of chance, all because, in theory, the stars aligned just right and they were born to the wealthy rather than desperate family.
So it was early on that I realized too that the words destiny and fate only mean someone who has had a bad roll of the dice and is content to not roll again, for risk of snake eyes.
My initial rolls weren't the best. My parents and family weren't well off, high school was a painful reminder on a daily basis that I was, ahem, a loser, and there was no college scholarships lined up for me, only days of backbreaking labor for the rest of my miserable life.
But snake eyes. I took the dice, I took my chance with destiny, and rolled again.
This isn't about my first time realizing this power. But it's one that, despite the years, despite the many many women I've had, that still keeps a good memory to me. After a while the faces blur, after a while I forget which house I was at, but some memories are gold.
And if there was one lesson from high school that I remembered, from the education given by the teachers rather than my peers, it was that life, for most males, across nearly all species, life is a bitch. Nature is cold-hearted and cruel. For every female in season, there are dozens of males, and usually only one lucky bastard gets her.
But nature depends more on those rolls of luck than Vegas odds. I remember distinctly reading about camouflage. Not just about blending in to the trees with striped fur or spotted wings, but disguising yourself as the fairer sex, to be ignored by the large males, in order to sneak in and get with the females.
Humans aren't nearly as, ahaha, lucky.
But I am.
Though to be sure it would be intense to be taken as a female, a full woman, escort a fellow female home, and then reveal the disguise.
But that isn't quite my talent.
I remember her still, this girl named Blanca. I have no idea what her parents were smoking when they named her, but she lucked out nicely, if not in name, in looks. Not white skin as her name proclaimed, but a soft bronze that looked the world like a Photoshop skin. Dark raven hair, and eyes that came from her mother rather than her Hispanic father, a deep dark blue. Almost purple really. And she was one of those beautiful women who knows how beautiful they are.
In high school she was always with the captain of the football or basketball team, but she was a smart one too, scholarships ahoy, to far away colleges, and so when I cracked open the window and slipped inside, I was shocked to see who it was.
Don't get me wrong, I knew a smoking hot woman lived in this house, and that she lived alone; chance and running risks doesn't mean you go in blindfolded. I had watched a routine for a few weeks, but never fully caught her face, and, like I said, memories sometimes play with me. If slight amnesia for a girl I had seen fitfully years ago was the price I paid, it was well worth it.
And luck was further on my side, because the night I found her window unlocked and indeed wide open, it was because it was high summer, and with the rolling monsoon storms, the power was out. Which explained why she was stretched on the couch, in a vast living room, rather than in a private and likely stuffy bedroom.
And nude. Chance and luck almighty, she was there, one long leg draping off the side of the couch, her arms outstretched, and I didn't need the flashlight that swung from my belt. There were tons of candles around the place, starting to dim out.
Lucky lady, she was, that nothing had turned over and started a fire.
I can't say she was the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen, but many nights, before I discovered my ace, I had spent countless hours jerking it to the memory of her face, those long lashes and her light laugh, and how dark her tan lines were when we started school again. She always wore the tightest skimpiest bikini...
I have to admit, in hindsight, I was stupid. It was simply a shock; I had moved from my hometown years ago, and despite my travels had only met with one or two of my previous classmates. Finding Blanca here, realizing how stupid I had been not to check the mailbox for a proper name, was, however, just a slight of hand, a twist of fate.
Time hadn't slowed her though. Her long bronze body, no bikini lines this time, and her hair was nearly down to her waist. I love long hair on a woman, I really do. Those purple eyes were closed, her breathing was easy and soft, and one touch on that flat stomach, feeling how slick she was from sweat, and I was nearly undone right there.
Or close enough to.
But time to check again, just to be sure. I had never seen anyone else come or go in this house, and a quick check around the room indicated no other roommates, no family, and no man. A check in the kitchen showed a nearly empty dishwasher and the fridge was stocked for a single woman. No need to check the rest of the house, really, but ace in the hole aside, I wasn't keen on getting killed by some violent one-night stand.
So up the carpeted stairs I went, and in the master bedroom, nothing. In the spare bedroom and the office room, nothing at all. Perfect. Perfect.
Still it pays to be careful. I was sweating by the time I got back downstairs to see her still asleep, and it wasn't just from the heat in the house.
