Solar Systems

I walk into Scorekeepers Tuesday night anticipating ease. Except when I do a lap through the bar, I remember that the ratio of women to men is 5:1. Surrounding every decent guy stand 3-5 rotating girls. Observing the boys surrounded by just 3 girls, I see that conversations are more lax and on a very slow rotation. In systems of 5 and 6, however, the girls rotate very fast and frantically. It is this formation, the same as last year’s, that keeps me in space. Except in space, everyone just talks the talk and wimps out of walking the fucking walk. This space that I float in is where the centers of these systems come to take a break. The funny thing is, I question whether they are capable of surviving without their rotating planets. How are they one on one? But lately I’ve been fucking it up before getting to find out! I brisk away in attempts to conceal my Quagmire ways from boys who aren’t familiar with me.

I’m so used to getting bootie text after bootie text all throughout last year (notice I’ve written bootie text rather than bootie call to call attention to the fact that technology has made us a socially awkward generation). Going through my contacts the other night, I realized fuck, all of my past clusters of bootie calls have graduated. I am left coming to terms with the fact that I need to start networking.

I think I fell in love this week. See, have you ever seen and heard somebody so aesthetically and musically pleasing that there is nothing he or she could possibly do wrong and it scares/intrigues the living shit out of you? I found one’a'those at Scorekeeper’s Tuesday. And I knew who he was last year, but had never gotten the chance to be formally introduced.

But let me say being musically and aesthetically pleasing is not the same as just an aesthetically pleasing person. Of course, I cannot say that I do not enjoy aesthetically pleasing people. Aesthetically pleasing people are great. I have loved the instances in which I’ve been accompanied by aesthetically pleasing men with aesthetically pleasing dicks on kitchen counters and balconies. But there is something about the quality of voice that makes me absolutely infatuated with a man. The music of certain men’s voices and the rhythm of the way they just present themselves; it makes me unable to control myself. During the few moments that these men escape their solar systems and come into my space, I dodge away from them in fear of blurting out, “I WANT TO BE ON YOU.”

It’s not that I am afraid I’ll run out of something to say. I’m afraid I am going to come off like a really creepy pervert. Because in actuality I am a really creepy pervert. I have issues demonstrating self control, and I think the fact that I carry myself respectably in public is something worth noting. It takes a lot of discipline for me to do that. I should be awarded with male indentured servants for the class and suavity that I manage to maintain in public. Because my thoughts about men are classifiable with the thoughts of creepy old men I, indeed, deserve male indentured servants rather than slaves because it would be a really temporary interval of time that these men would work for me.

Speedos make me feel really uncomfortable so I would have them wear white boxer briefs. Except I don’t want their bodies to be completely shaven. I appreciate armpit and chest hair. It emphasizes the fact that there’s a man in front of me. These slaves wouldn’t leave my room. Unless I needed them to run an errand for me. I’d want them waiting in my room 24/7 so on the nights I cannot find an aesthetically/musically pleasing man, I’d have lollipop backup. But I’d have to change my crew of slaves every week because I’d probably get really bored of them really fast. I much prefer chases, but there has to be a dead end eventually.

Today I fantasized about my Tuesday night sexy man from Scorekeepers. Well actually, I became better acquainted with him via conversation the night after. But it was too brief, which was partially my fault. But about my “fantasy” session. It was a very satisfying fantasy session. After having several masturbation sessions over the past few weeks with extremely short and unsatisfying climaxes, I’d started to wonder if it was because I had grown accustomed to being under the influence of marijuana regularly in my sexual encounters. I was scared marijuana had crippled me. But then I imagined the scenario of going to his place because he found my lost phone, and wanting to make it up to him, I sexxed him silly. I’d like to make this plot a reality. Sigh of relief, I’m not dependent on marijuana. Thinking about him made masturbation wayyy better. Turns out I’ve just been bored by my male peers. But this new endeavor I came across Tuesday night—his mere existence has revived my consciousness, sexual and psychological. I want him inside me and I won’t leave the issue alone until I get it. This is such a nuisance. Gag me.