John flipped the page to the next full-page ad: The face, the lips, the eyes of the woman blown up on the ad. For some reason, seeing pictures like this reminds John of all the chances he had to create sexual wonders come to life.
“If only I would have said ‘Hi.'”
“If only I would have had something interesting to say.”
“If only I wouldn’t’ve masturbated before I went out–or at least used more lube.”
“Whatever,” muttered as he flipped the page to an Extenze ad. Maybe if he purchased this and got a bigger penis, maybe then he’d have the balls to say something to those sexy goth chicks with those… yummy tattoos all over those… legs.
He flipped the page, resisting the urge to go back to his room and grab the green bottle of Vaseline lotion. Seeing lots of text and nothing of interest, he closed the magazine and flung it toward the table, spinning slightly before a flop sound.
The coffee cup reflects himself and all of his failed dreams, reflecting, too, his hand as he reaches for the shining, blue diffusing handle. Gripping the cup and pull it to his lips, he immediately thinks of the number of times he’s pulled this particular coffee cup to his lips.
This container of energy–or psychological psuedo-fuel–has delivered warmth and caffeine (even though he knew damn well that it wasn’t caffeine that gave the kick) to his fleshly lips every single day for the past five years (except that one day when the power went out). Why hasn’t he done something useful with these sips of coffee? Why hasn’t he done something like anchor this coffee cup to feelings of total success and inspiration?
:”Good question,” he tells himself, pushing the bottom of the handle while simultanously pulling the top of the handle to tilt the warm, cream-and-sugar-filled brown, only slightly viscous super-substance onto the tip of his tongue. The substance then did the rest of the work, salaciously sliding down from the top front of the tip of tongue to then hump and consummate with every surface-level molecule of his tongue in lascivious romance of chemical explosions–inspiring neural mating sequences on a body-wide level.
This was the most fantastic cup of coffee he’s ever had.
“Well, if I can create some kind of sequence where every sip inspires more and more success, then what’s the way that I can do it?” Well, John thought, he could have a written down vision–a written down process where he creates says a part of an opener that he learned from The Game, this random book that he picked up a while ago.
“Okay,” he admits to himself, “I still read and silently abide by this book as if it’s the law. It’s still in my bedroom on my nightstand.” Now that he admitted that, he thinks about how with every sip, he could review a time he made the right move, or did something that he thought he wouldn’t be able to do.
Maybe, he thinks as he tilts more delicious coffee-scentilation into his Mind-Body, he can imagine connecting one of the concepts he learns to various events in his life, either real and past or imagined and to come. Because, he thinks, if I can do this in the mind, I’m way more likely to do it in real life. Remember the lessons from Psycho-Cybernetics?
Ten more sips went like this until his cup was empty. “Jesus Christ, I’M GOING OUT.” He slides his chair back as he stands up, turns around, walks through a doorway to then get to the front door. He’s in his robe, but he doesn’t care. Reaching his hand to the handle and turning the handle, he pulls the door back to see sunlight flood through his retinas. The street is almost totally empty, until he sees the long, bare legs of a blonde jogger running from the distances closer along the sidewalk.
The writer of this story experiences massive desire to really fuck this woman–and himself as he thinks of this story. Therefore, the writer must write about the process of wanting to fuck this woman so hard as the John continues the story behind this writing about the writer wanting to fuck this woman and unmentioned women in the mind’s eye.
John makes the first step, feeling the acid flooding from the mid of his spine along up the lower back of his neck as he makes step after step toward her.”Nothing’ll happen,” he intellectualizes. “Fuck you” says the emotions with tears streaming down its eyes, “RAwaraHRNEYEEERYBUUUKACKeer RAAAAHHHHH” says physical body, who both floods blood to John’s penis, resulting in the massive hardon that fuels his steps.
“Keep moving,” he says as he takes another step.
And another step. And ANOTHER step.
Step step step! Step the step… And then–take another step 🙂
Until the moment comes–the turn! His body then begins to make that instinctive 180 turn. He exhales violently as he moves himself psychologically. “Just take another step!”
The urge to 180 floods over him like a wave, (thankfully) passing as he finally places him directly before her, this blonde jogger. Her eyes are so symmetrical. Her lips–juicy. That ass feels so nice–I can feel it from here. Her waist, so tight and thin. They line in so perfectly with those beautiful fake tits, covered only in a sports bra. I want to pull that bra off and lick those nipples until they squirt milk. Which is going to happen because I’m going to fuck her nice smelling, athletic pussy until it fucking squirts like a fountain–like a fountain that will spit out a baby just so that I can keep on licking those nipples until milk comes out. And then I’ll drink that milk, the baby gets what’s left.
“Hi,” he says.
“Ummm, hi?” Okay, she doesn’t give a shit. What’s the best way to get her to overcome it. “Remember Sugarman*” one mind thinks. “Alright.”
“You’re a 34-28-34,” he says.