Breaking Up

I recently dodged a bullet.

The young, hot blonde. Things hadn't been right between us from the start. Not much to talk about. Lots of awkward silences. A look of annoyed miscomprehension on her beautiful face whenever I brought up a subject about which she knew nothing, which was often. She was cripplingly boring. Once a chap finds himself preferring to spend an evening sipping cocktails instead of spending time with his girl, as I did, it's time to move on.

For this reason and a few others, our break-up was inevitable.

The sex, I can report, was great. I loved the way she gave me head--arguably the best I've ever received. And I appreciated the way she doubled-up and clawed at my back, gasping, moaning, her eyes rolling back in her head when I bottomed-out inside her. Good times.

Her family originated in colonial New England from Mayflower stock. But it was all down hill from there. Her parents were divorced. Her mother was a crazy mudshark who had shacked up with not one but two sub-hominids in Los Angeles and had a daughter by one of the creatures; the mother now lives as an old hippy in a dingy lower class neighbourhood. Her father, for his part, was addicted to little Asian slags with pasty, pockmarked faces.

During the final break-up session, when I realised it was irretrievably over, I told her certain truths about herself, about Western women, and about life that in all honesty she had probably never heard before and will never hear again. Most men are pussies when it comes to beautiful girls. I'm just a selfish asshole (her words). Which, of course, simply means I don't put the filly on a pedestal.

Modern life, as you know, is not without great cost.