Succubus

Succubus
1.
a demon in female form, said to have sexual intercourse with men in their sleep.
2.
any demon or evil spirit.
3.
a strumpet or prostitute.

I love women. Love their bodies, smells, laughs and awkwardness. But there are evil women out there; a few she-devils that spoil it for all the other good ladies. Of course men are pigs, totally devoid of most human emotion. Or they’re just pussies. Either way totally flawed but back to women. A woman can crawl into a man’s heart, ball-sack, mind and spirit; (but usually not in that order) and when she’s in there, a man has no chance. And if the woman is a succubus, the man is truly fucked (spiritually and emotionally speaking, not the hot fucking we all love and adore.) Everyone knows a succubus. They are the women who latch onto a man’s soul like a barnacle and suck him dry, (not the good ball-sack sucking dry by the way). They can take a great man, a giant among men, who runs fast and strong into danger and would fist-fuck a pissed off tiger if it meant being a better husband or father and turn him into mush. Or worse, turn him into a cold shadow of feeling who hesitates to give his love to another. The kindest and most honest men I’ve know tend to have the most problems with females. Ladies, these are the men who would step in front of a train just to suck your nipples to see if they actually tasted as good as they smelled. These men get steam fucking rolled!!! No wonder the assholes thrive. Well at least I hope so. I’m trying to make a living here.
Maybe perversion is the absolute honesty. I love women so I’m constantly trying to bone a lot of them which fucks up every relationship I’ve been in. Monogamy sounds great in theory. Actually it sounds pretty shitty. Yes everyone? Agreed? Of course we all don’t act on our desires and we shouldn’t unless we are willing to live with the consequences. Or we just need some great oral sex, which let’s face it; oral sex is the first to go in a relationship which is a shame, (that’s assuming that anal was never on the table which is also a shame.)
I have not always been this crass and jaded. Okay maybe I have but there was a time I tried to make it work American Dream style. I got married to a succubus and it all went to shit. I married at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons to the wrong person and so the story goes. But love is out there. It’s sitting next to you on a bar stool, or maybe giving you an HJ at a movie theater, or maybe it’s that hot chick that you were too big of a pussy to say hi to at Starbucks the other day. Chick with the yellow hat, are you out there?

Drunk Tank Blues

The guards put us in a drunk tank that was so overcrowded it looked like a grenade filled with losers exploded. The room was the size of a racquetball court and there was only one toilet right in the center of the room. They had given us dirty mattresses that looked like they had been used by back alley abortion doctors that never took the time to change the sheets. I had to piss the entire time they were processing us and by the time we got into the holding cell, I was convinced that my bladder was going to burst. It felt like a car’s airbag had gone off in my belly. I knew that if I didn’t piss soon, I would pop like a giant urine filled balloon.
I went to the center of the room and took my penis out. I would say “cock” but that implies an imposing member. My penis is average size but it does get hard enough to drill a hole in a still wall. At that moment however, my penis was as intimidating as a windsock.
As I tried to push the piss out, I could feel eyes watching me from every part of the room. The dam was sturdy; the piss was going to stay right where it was.
I’ve heard that men get stage fright while peeing because they know they are more vulnerable so the defense mechanism is to go on pee pee lock down. It was the worst possible moment for this to happen. I had already taken the penis out. The other men were waiting to hear the splash sound that was not coming. Seconds ticked by and panic starting tickling my nut sac.
Finally I pushed harder than a lady giving birth to sumo wrestler’s baby and a trickle dripped out like the first drop of rain after a devastating draught. The relief was so powerful that everything else relaxed and I let the loudest, wettest, butt cheek vibrating-est fart the world has ever been stained with. Normally this would probably impress people in jail, but it didn’t impress the giant skinhead who was sleeping right under my ass. The fart was so ferocious, I was sure that the shit-wind moved his nose hairs.
The skinhead, (I would come to know his name as Tiny,) jumped up and he was upset, which was understandable. But I knew that in jail you had to be tough and a general prick to get respect so I simply turned around, looked at him and shrugged as if to say, “shit happens.” Well shit did happen to his face and it came from my asshole.
Tiny snarled and paced back and forth behind me. I knew he could spring at any moment, but I also knew that since I had held my piss in for so long that now that it had started, it wasn’t going to let up anytime soon.
On and on the moment went, me peeing, and him getting madder and madder with each ounce of piss that came out of me. Finally I finished and took my mattress to a tiny clearing on the floor in a corner of the room right next to a pile of puke that some drunk had been nice enough to share with everyone.
I slept, or tried to sleep, with my back against the wall that night keeping an eye on Tiny. From time to time I would see him look over at me with the white eyes of a man bent on revenge. He would come for me at some point; it was prison law. That’s okay, I thought, I’ll be ready.

VIP Room

I’m not a big stripper fan.  To me it’s a waste of money.  You pay a cover, pay way too much for shitty watered-down drinks, pay for maybe an erection, then you pay for God knows what else; what’s on the menu all depends on how dirty and desperate the strippers are. 

My friend T came with me to a strip club in North Seattle.  It was a rundown building and was probably situated close to your friendly, neighborhood crack house.  The look of the place suggested that this was the spot to go to when there were no other options. 

T was a fiend for strippers and every guy has a friend like this in their social group.  As soon as T entered the building his eyes would gleam and dart around the room.  He was home and where he belonged.  Strip clubs are thriving businesses thanks to people like T who will pay an entire month’s rent just to have some strange dance around and hopefully on top of him.

I was on a budget, which meant I was broke at the time, and I decided to only bring in $40 cash and nothing more.  That way I wouldn’t be tempted to blow my wad—cash wad I mean—all at once.  My plan was to stretch the money out as long as possible. 

We took a seat right next to the stage and some chick, I think her name was Raven, was doing a talented little number to a White Snake song.  The same song you can hear at every strip club in the world; including Bangkok I’m sure.  She finished up and T had seen enough.  It was time for him to start throwing money away.

T held up a handful of cash and strippers attacked like piranhas.  Three of them, each weighing at least a deuce and a half, were all over him.  At first I thought maybe these women were bouncers or the starting linebackers for Seahawks but it turns out that they were actually the talent that we were expected to pay for.  T got up and handed his stack to the nearest buffalo and the three women lead him into the mystical place that all strip clubs have; the VIP room.   

With T gone, I was left alone with my thoughts and the sight of the only decent looking stripper in the place shaking her ass and tits to a Tone Loc song; a song that was one of my favorites as a little kid.  There may be some Freudian shit going on there. 

The stripper finished her set and she approached me.  20 bucks got you 5 minutes of a lap dance, which is a standard price these days.  I agreed and she took me back into the VIP room to make good on her part of the deal.

The lap dance was above average and there was a lot of “touching” going on.  I was rock hard the entire time which is a little unusual, and things were starting to get raw down there.  The stripper gave me some story about working to pay for her law school tuition.  Yeah right.  Regardless I gave her another 20 to keep going.  40 dollars down the side of my leg and I had only been in the place for 10 minutes.

Now my money was gone and I looked over and the three giant strippers were dancing all around T.  I hoped they wouldn’t accidently crush him.  I knew he would be a while so I went back to watch the dancing.

As soon as I sat down, a bartender told me I had to buy a drink.  I explained that I just spent 40 on lap dances and that I didn’t have any more money.  Magically, a humongous bouncer materialized out of thin air and put his baseball glove sized paw on my arm.  It was time to go. 

“Hold on,” I said.  “Let me go tell my friend.” 

The bouncer reluctantly agreed and I went back to the VIP room.  T looked spellbound so I had to yell into his face to get his attention.  “These motherfuckers are bouncing me, let’s go!”

“5 more minutes!” T responded.

I left the place and sat down in the parking lot.  A shitty Seattle piss-rain was falling and I didn’t have any cigarettes to pass the time.  5 minutes went by.  Then 10, 20, and 30 went by.  Where the fuck was T?  Had he been rolled in the back alley?  Did the giant strippers kill him and were now eating his body to dispose of the evidence?  Lurid and morbid thoughts stumbled through my mind like a drunk sorority chick.

Just as I was about to call the authorities, the door opened and T exited the building with a huge grin on his face.  He had obviously gotten his money worth in the VIP room; that special place where a man can have confidence and walk around for the rest of the night with the sweet smell of stripper perfume lingering on his collar and maybe, just maybe, a fresh load of shame congealing in his pants.