Horrors of Whores

I vehemently try to stray from traveling down the lonely path of objectifying women, although blamelessly my drunken visions and drive can get the best of me.

Men get too much flack about womanizing, using women for sexual pleasure unabashedly, strictly for physical gratification and such. The problem is that women are just as bad, proving that the “male chauvinist pig” model is greatly generalized negatively. The modern woman is far stronger than outwardly perceived.

Nightmares of whores can explode and coincide with self-reflection, well, only if you have a conscience. Like the purportedly slutty girls I shared the dance floor with on Halloween, must’ve stayed out there an hour dancing with them, admiring them, desiring them.

They return in my dreams now and then, not in an unhealthy sort of manner, but beyond their scantily clad outfits and suggestive demeanor was polluted temptation. Carefree is a way made easier by detaching emotion.

Too many horrors seen out in the field, like I’ll often find myself talking to a girl longer than necessary, who I have zero interest/attraction in at varying degrees, then the lead I really want slips away into oblivion forever. One girl in particular, a best friend of a friend who shall remain unnamed, took a liking to me in a more than forthcoming way. She badly sabotaged at least five solid leads in the process over time.

For one, she was highly unattractive to me. Two, and far worse, was her high level of obnoxiousness in commentary and blaring verbal pitch delivery. Definitely the loudest in the room and the hardest to look at, confirmed by trusted sources. Whenever we shared space at the same party I’d be cordial and polite, her flirtatious eyes batting towards me unreciprocated to avoid mixed signals. This never stopped her relentless quest to remove my boxers, she really couldn’t grasp my acute lack of fascination.

Finally, one night I’d had enough of her vile antics, partially because of another girl at the bar I’d been charmed by. “Don’t touch me, get away from me, seriously,” is what I flatly said to the skank. She smiled, attempting to swoop in for another touchy feely contact, which is when guard went way up with hands outstreched, “No, I mean it, don't touch me.” She never made that mistake again.

She’s been since verified to be a casual whore, would spread legs if anyone showed remote awareness to her advances. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but nothing compares to “ugly on the inside.”

Nonchalant fooling around is acceptable if both parties agree with the deal. Many people I’ve known and know (male and female) have decimated their reputations for one simple fling with the wrong person, the one with differing expectation. Damage can be irreparable, and even if it’s out of character, the stigma sticks with all those involved directly or not.

Be careful about who you sexually explore. That is the theme for Saturday.

Tomorrow night is Shelley’s 30th Birthday Bash in Venice, and she's one of my favorite people around.

I’ll gladly attend with a new secret alcoholic beverage concoction, one in which the ingredients shall remain a mystery. My confidence stems from continuous past successes in mixing perfect drinks. For Shelley, it’ll be Foo-Foo Bliss.