virgins and hookers

Dec 27, 2012

*** temporarily uncensored – more of this in the secret section ***

xsplat’s writings changed my mind about not banging the virgin.

or at least, not even putting in an effort.  it’s also partially due to my new thing of no-masturbation.  see that shit plenty on blogs, but seemed retarded to me.  why not check out some good porn, get off?  pussies.

but then after three days of no getting off, i’m like a different person.  being that fucking horny raises my motivation by 500%.

then there are guys who also say no pros.  which … i used to be with, but here you go to a club that has a hundred teenage and barely 20′s girls who weigh a hundred pounds or less, and can be had for twenty bucks a night.  how exactly do you say no to all that?  a night of dancing, getting ‘hit on’ by all these chicks, and then having a total all night tally of $20.25 (25 cents for the motorbike valet) with guaranteed sex.  figure that twice a week, it’s not exactly breaking any banks.

then i worry about weird stds.  but not enough not to go back.

the other day i point blank told the virgin that i need to bang.  her, or other bitches.  whatever.  the combination of presenting sex as a no-shame thing and the competition has her on edge.  she really wants to, but she’s also heavily culturally conditioned not to.  fun to watch the struggle, at the very least.

last night, at the club.  tall, sexy, sexy girl.  take one look at it, smile.  she comes over.  dances.  half hour later, “want to come with me?  my room is very near here.”  jake didn’t go.  but it’s like that all night.  and the later it gets, the more the ratio is not in the girls favor.  less guys, and all the chicks left in the place are starting to look at the reality of going home without.  competition heats up.  it’s not really actually fully interesting the way regular girls are, but when you got to fill up blank spaces in the schedule, it beats sitting at home watching tv.

also whoever says that virgins are innocent creatures, is full of shit.  this girl plays games like the most seasoned cock-hopper.  maybe more so.  interesting though, living in a place where every chick knows that you’re five to twenty bucks away from getting laid (the local hit-and-run-teenage-sexy-vietnamese-refugee-hooker-places are five bucks.  five bucks!).  not like the U.S. where your chick might deny sex, knowing you’re not just going to walk down the street and get some, for the price of a pack of smokes.

vietnam still on the radar.  but … with the new local trouble maker connections, hesitating.  it’s an in.  a new thing.  and in so many ways, ever place feels the same.  even if there are more hot chicks in thailand, and the food is better.

last week, brought home a 40 kilo little pay-for thing.  she passed out on my bed.  fucking hell.  totally passed out.  after i went out and actually bought condoms, at four in the morning.  probably a good thing considering that drunk-jake cut a hole in the condom thinking about, you know.  causing unwanted pregnancies. i’m really loosing my shit here, every so often.  maybe not watching porn will chill out the need to go totally over the top with being past this point of reasonableness.

what do you do though?  no laws.  a habit of getting a buzz before going out.  stacking growly’s storage spot with extra vodka.  blasting through town, knowing that there are no cops.  no license, no registration, no tail light, no break lights, no helmet.  winding out every gear, scaring the little scooter riders half to death, top speed through downtown, drunk.  knowing in the club that anything and everything is mine, for twenty bucks.

just. no. rules.  after so long, it starts fucking with you.  no money worries, no bosses, zero people to assert any authority over you.  money in the bank.  every day is whatever the fuck you want.  how long before you start cutting holes into condoms, to fuck sketchy hookers with?

it’s just a question of what will kill me first.  the motorbike, some random paragliding trip accident, a weird std, an angry father …

but there’s nobody to stop me.  i can’t stop me.

there was a me that had a cubicle job.  wore a tie.  had a boss.  worried about being three minutes late to work.  it’s truly and utterly weird to consider that reality.  that i was married to a chick that was getting fat.  that i worried about the cop cruiser in my rear view.  months long dry spells.  nobody ever told me that in most of the world i’d actually be a reigning terror, free to do whatever i want.

and still, all the expats i meet live the same cage lives they had back home.  they find the few places that charge too much for food, they hook up with the 30-something washed up three-kids ex bar girls, they get shitty underpaid teaching jobs, they bitch about life.

so how much of it all is really just in your head?

 

 

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