"I met girl at the Rainbow Bar / She asked me if I'd beat her / I took her back to the Hyatt House... I don't want to talk about it..."

- "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me," Warren Zevon

Loren

The third part of the hat trick was Loren, whom I actually liked. Unlike Melissa, Loren was a predator. She wasn't begging for any man to save her. She just liked to fuck. Sideways, upside down, in the yard, tied up, toys, blindfolded, dildoed, hot waxed, over the sink/table/car hood/gas grill... You get the picture.

The difference between fucking Loren and Melissa was the difference between winding out a V-12 S 65 on an open track and doing 45 in heavy rush hour traffic in a Volvo station wagon on a Monday morning. Melissa was a dutiful, dependable machine - on the back, legs in the air, moaning on cue, her mind anywhere but the moment. "This is what mother said to do - 'Dream of custom curtains while he does his business, dear... it won't take but a few moments.'" Loren was moody, unpredictable and prone to wild emotional outbursts. She was probably bipolar, pushing 30, lost and scared. She'd been married and didn't like it. She'd been in marketing and didn't like it. She'd been in finance and didn't like it. Utterly rudderless, law school had been one in a long line of futile efforts to find a direction.

I think it was a shared lack of direction and unchanneled ambition that attracted us to one another. Neither of us could sit still, but neither of us could figure out what we wanted to do with our lives. I've heard the "you're a smart kid, and your work is good, but something's lacking" speech more times than I've heard the National Anthem in the last decade. I've deep ruts in the enamel on my teeth from grinding my jaw shut to avoid blurting "Really? That's odd, Tad, because I get such a granite hard-on thinking about the endless hours of research and writing, and the five term papers worth of briefs I punch out each month, that I almost collapse from blood loss to the brain every time I look at my Blackberry. Please review me more... All this talk about my work on the Fephlowitz file has me just about ready to spew a palm sized slug of man-yogurt onto that photo of your daughter." I smile and promise improvement, wondering whether his daughter is easy.

I saw in Loren something I saw in myself, and saw in most people I'd found interesting. She wanted to succeed, but she also wanted to experience life, and she had no patience. When something bored her or was too slow or became regular and predictable, she moved on. She couldn't wait the years to build a book in sales. She couldn't stick out the politics in a big office. She couldn't suffer a second year of law school. Loren couldn't become a specialist of any stripe. Like me, she viewed hunkering down and churning out 40 years of paychecks in any one endeavor - repeating any set of standard tasks - as terminal illness. People like us can't suffer the 30% of any professional job that's tedium and dreck. If the task doesn't grab us by the balls and hold our interest, we dog it. I've tried my damnedest to become interested in the dreck... It's not happening. As soon as I get bored, I shut down. Call me spoiled, immature, absurd... there's nothing I can do about it.

Neither of us could resign ourselves to the reality that, for a lot of people, and nearly all professionals, commoditized tasks are What Must Be Done to make solid money. I saw mirrored in Loren my own frustration at wanting to be a career Renaissance Man in a world of cookie cutter specialists. She and I were destined for the same merry-go-round - learning one job or practice area, performing it until boredom sets in, then jumping to something else, chasing that illusory "perfect fit." What we really wanted was an endless smorgasbord of interesting jobs, each of which we could leave for another interesting job at our whim, the moment we became bored. That's insanely unrealistic, but we're not sane in regard to our careers. So we wind up in law, operating under the misconception that because law touches everything, it'll allow us to learn about myriad businesses, and jettison in and out of them with our dilettante's primers.

Once that delusion is crushed, we spend our time fucking, snorting, smoking, jogging, golfing, eating, drinking, mountain biking or day-trading away the boredom. The problem with this is, the same way you can drink yourself sober if you do it for enough hours straight, after a time, the escapist kicks don't get you high enough to forget where you'll be the next morning at 9:00 a.m. You wind up getting a tour card for the Weird Circuit, where the baseline for the "strange" - the only thing that lets you forget - gets higher and higher...

Loren was an "Automatic" from the moment I met her. There are certain people you meet and immediately know you will fuck. You don't know when. You don't know where. You don't know the circumstances of it. But you'll fuck. And both of you realize it. There's a sudden recognition you can't ignore. Neither of you is the love of each other's lives. You won't settle down and raise ugly dim children with an Automatic. Most Automatic hook-ups are far too intense to sustain long term. You fuck like rabbits, fight and split, if there's even any semblance of a relationship to split. The fight that ends your arrangement usually occurs when one of you tells the other you're getting seriously involved with someone else. Breaking the Automatic "relationship" is tough because it's more a junkie-to-fix than lover-to-lover link. You physically enjoy fucking this person. It's a release, like runner's high, or the blessed cold fingers of that first drink on a Friday night. There's no concern about scaring her with some bizarre sexual request. There's no brunch, no meeting the parents, no walking her lab through the park. The fucking is perfectly pure - a commodity... and there's nothing else. And like an addict, you have to do it. There's no not fucking an Automatic. You're into her on a level you don't understand. It might be the curve of her cheekbones... the slope of her breasts... the mechanism of her eyelids closing and opening and her lips sliding over her teeth as she smiles when you talk. Not fucking her is a crime against karma. A hopeless fool blind to the mating rituals fucks his Automatic.

I reached Loren's place at 8:00. She greeted me at the door in a white t-shirt and jeans. "Hey, darling..." I didn't answer. I wasn't listening. The only thing on my mind were her nipples, poking through a frayed t-shirt. I pushed her into the hall and closed the door. A handful of bong hits and Amstels later we were on the floor, and I had one of those nipples in my mouth. "Wait," she stopped me. "I need to put something on." She jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Loren was about 5'7, with long legs and b-cups. Her body was tight, but not athletic. She was a solid 8, but her pussy pushed her to an 8.5.

There are innumerable varieties of pussy. You've got the "High 'V'," where the entrance is high on the "pubic ridge," and the "Low 'V'," which sits closer to the "back door." The High V is best for missionary, the Low V best enjoyed from behind. You've got "Tight," "Moderate" and "Cavernous," characterizations requiring no explanation. You've got "Short" and "Long," the Short being those where, in the right position, you'll accidentally (or purposefully if you're curious), hit the cervix (you'll know when you hit this because; (1) she'll yelp, and; (2) it feels like you've run up against a lube-coated hacky sack).

But aesthetically, there are only three aspects to any pussy. The first is of course the bush, which is the pussy's personality. It lets you know how the pussy's been used, what it likes and what its owner probably expects. If you meet a pussy crawling near the thighs like Ivy, you've got a granola chick. Even a lazy woman or a chick going for the retro 70s "Disco Mitt" look takes pains to ensure the bush isn't sneaking into the hinge where the leg meets the pelvis. You should hear "China Cat > Rider" in the background while fucking this pussy.¹ Non-hippie chicks bearing Bake McBride fros below should be avoided. There's a reason for that disrepair, and it's never worth exploring.

The tiny "Vertical Hitler" stash just above the opening usually indicates a similarly sized IQ. This is a woman who. truly. enjoys. the. mall. It also shows an appalling lack of creativity and decisiveness. A thin wisp of hair, rarely thicker than your thumb, the Vertical Hitler is the favored look of 90s era Playmates and Hospitality Services majors everywhere. It's putting $95 on red and $5 on black... a senseless, futile hedge. This is the kind of girl who will reply to a request for anal sex with "You mean in my butt?"

The Landing Strip is nothing more than an elongated Vertical Hitler. She puts $90 on red, $10 on black.

The Brazilian is the "Playa" bush. This woman can afford to blow 80 dollars forcing an elderly illegal immigrant to fiddle with her ass hair and she wants you to know it. She has no trouble demoralizing a Russian or Mexican grandmother and won't have any qualms about telling you your technique sucks. And you will be eating that pussy for hours. If you have any problem with that, put your pants on and leave. Many men believe women get Brazilians for them. For a few cravenly insecure women, this is true. For the ones you want to fuck, this is folly. She's not having her pubic hair torn off to satisfy a man's subconscious pedophilic fantasies. The Brazilian's a "Start Eating" tattoo above her vagina. Until and unless she's come twice, you'll get nothing and like it. By the time she gets around to your penis, your tongue and jaw will be root canal numb. The Brazilian is no place for a man with performance anxiety. If she's smoother than Yul Brynner, bring your A Game or don't go at all.

The Standard Cut is, in my opinion, the best bush pound for pound. This three inch, close cropped bush is the Two Button Brooks Brothers Classic of pubic fashion. It's never been trendy, but never out of style. It's been worn by women of every station, at every age, from time immemorial (or at least since the invention of the razor). Dependable, tasteful and easy to manage, you can set your watch by the Standard Cut. You won't gag eating it, and its conservative presence creates a perfect contrast against the thighs. You know its there, but its never overpowering. It's a bush content not being the center of attention, and it advertises nothing. You won't know how she likes it until you starting exploring. You could have a nymphomaniac on your hands or a dead fish. The Standard Cut exudes quiet, understated dignity. It's the Barbara Bush of bushes. Only you'll want to fuck it.

The second immediately noticeable piece of the pussy is the lips. The lips should be taut, firm and compact, like a good set of lips on a mouth. You want a full set, like Angelina Jolie, but nothing in the Steven Tyler or Mick Jagger arena. A flabby, loose set of lips does no favors for an already aesthetically disastrous organ. Let's face a simple fact - up close, genitalia are objectively ugly. If you doubt this, jerk off in front of a mirror. Better yet, lay one on the floor and stand over it, straddling it, and look down. That should cure any leanings toward a belief in Intelligent Design. The Louvre isn't missing a "spread eagle" exhibit by happenstance. There's a reason Da Vinci's David isn't bending over or pulling one leg up to his chest. Viewed dead on, the genitals are an anatomical car accident. They're comfort food - presentation's irrelevant. A set of thick, hanging lips gives the appearance of shaved roast beef. I enjoy a roast beef special as much as the next guy, but the idea of licking a slab of it, sopping wet and salty, between a woman's legs, isn't enticing. There's no escaping the fact that up close, the vulva does look like a clam or mussel, or in some cases, an oyster. But it should never resemble anything you can order at Arby's. If it looks like it'd be delicious with Swiss and Dijon, I'm not licking it... Unless I've been drinking, in which case I'll lick anything I think will lick back.

But back to Loren's pussy... Loren's pussy pulled her to an 8.5 because of its originality. Where most women work the Standard Cut only on the sides, allowing the uncut portion to grow high and curly, puffing outward, Loren trimmed hers like a green at Shinnecock. You'd think was a common style, but it's rare - a high maintenance cut, requiring agonizing attention to detail. Too close and you've got a patch of porcupine stubble. Too high and the hair would stand up straight, at attention - a Marine buzzcut between the legs. But when it worked, and hers did, you got a refreshing modern spin on the Standard Cut - an exotic, but practical pussy.

I was sitting on the floor, pulling a quick hit from Loren's blue glass bong, when she appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a black latex dress and steel heels. Her eyes were ringed in thick liner, her lips coated in deep red lipstick, both black in the dim rose lighting. I gulped my beer. She was wielding a wooden cooking spoon.

"Hit me with this," she smiled, handed me the spoon and pulled me into the bathroom. She pulled up the dress and leaned over the bathroom sink, "Hit me." I grasped a handful of the latex dress and held it halfway up her back. The plastic fabric felt strange in my hand. I've never understood the latex fetish. It's antiseptic, clinical - something you'd wear in a lab, or surgery. Maybe that was the kick of it. Maybe latex reminded Loren of gynecological exams. Perhaps she got off on speculums. Maybe she had a deep seeded laboratory fetish... a desire to be examined, tortured, run on treadmills... hooked up to sensors and shock therapy equipment. The images were too much. I had to stop my imagination from running. I was already too high for the assignment at hand. When I looked in the mirror and saw myself pulling back to swat her in the ass with the spoon, I didn't know whether to follow through or burst out laughing. But then it struck me... How couldn't I follow through? I pulled my arm back slowly, took two slow practice swings and connected with her left cheek. The wood cracked against her flesh like an opposite filed line drive slapped off a fastball. I winced and looked into the mirror for her reaction.

"Fucking hit me!" she growled. "Really hit me."

I pulled back as far as I could and swung the spoon forward, this time with weight behind it. "Snap," a sharply stung triple, enough to make the warning track. She barked for more, harder.

I played a lot of baseball as a kid, and while I could hit or field for shit, I could throw a fairly frightening fastball, and I did it with a nasty sidearm delivery, which gave it a breaking tail - a sort of fastball/slider. I can still throw around 70 mph and like to consider myself fairly strong. I was giving her all I had - full bore delivery - crushing the spoon into her over and over. And all she did was scream for another.

If you're looking to beat someone with a kitchen utensil, try the gravy spoon. It's a deadly effective spanking instrument. Terrifically light and aerodynamic, it clips through the air without a stitch of drag and slaps against the skin with a sickening crispness. By the tenth swing or so, I was playing with my technique, spinning it in different directions as I brought to her ass, searching for the perfect flush impact. By the tenth swing or so, I'd found a perfect DiMaggio slice, as well as the spoon's sweet spot. I was turning out sharp, perfect cracks in rapid succession.

"You're almost bleeding here. I think I'm doing damage." I was concerned, but I also needed to give my rotator cuff a break.

"Use the belt," Loren grinned, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What belt?"

"The one over there, on the door." On the door to her adjoining bedroom was a heavy gauge tan leather belt.

"The 'J Crew' one?"

"Yes."

I held it for a second, laughing to myself. "Are you serious? This thing's a fucking elephant crop."

"Concentrate on the right side," she leaned over the sink and pulled the right side of her dress up. In my half baked laziness, I'd swatted her almost exclusively on the left ass cheek, which was beginning to swell into an argyle-like pattern of red and purple welts.

There was only way to end this thing. No half stepping. "We have to do this on the bed. There's no way to get a proper arc in here with a belt that long."

If I ever intended to use this blog to meet women, now is where I'd say I broke down and told Loren I couldn't keep wailing on her. Suffice it to say, when we were done in the bedroom, I felt like the slave master in Roots.

"You need to put some ointment on that."

"I have some stuff in the bathroom."

I was grabbing a quick beer and a bong hit in the kitchen, blurring what had just happened from my mind, when Loren brought out the video camera. We'd talked about taping sex in the past, but neither of us was ambitious or organized enough to set the thing up.

"Now, tonight?"

"Why not?"

To be continued...

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¹ Though technically edible, the Hippie Muff and Disco Mitt are better fucked.

Posted by PhilaLawyer at 11:36 PM

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