Let me recount an untrue story.
While walking the Surogatei I noticed two chicks maybe about 30, in the funeral uniforms of the Communal Policeii (by the way, who came up with the nutty notion of dressing girls in pants ?), pretty, lipsticked, painted, coiffured, propping the shadow about the Chamber of Commerce. On heels.
And I asked my companeraiii, should I walk up to them and ask them to suck me off, what odds do you give the performance ? Smallish, she says. Whyssat ? I insist, to put her in difficulty. Let's say that, what do I know, let's say I give them money. So I take out ten grand in a chunkiv I doubt it has anything to do, she says.
I think on it for a while, and then I say but were you one of these community policewomenv and some guy came to you to suck his cock, would you perform ? Depends on the guy, she says. God damned whoredomvi they manufacture these days, you can twist and turn as you will and still not find anything to catch them with.
So I walk up to the girls and say, towards the brunette, being she the fiery-er and the blondy gentler, missy, will you suck my cock ?
They both measure me head to toe, once, twice, then she looks up and says ask her, pointing to blondy. If she sucks it, I'll suck it.
I turn to blondy, eyebrows raised in a Well ?, she chuckles and says ok, but where ? Over here in the gangvii comes out of me the inspiration of the moment. So I leave my girl at the entrance sitting sixesviii and go forth in the company of the two organs of public force and state authority to do piggies.ix With them on their knees. (That's why I was inquiring about the uniforms, they'll wear out.)
Can you believe this ? I thought so. Which is why I said from the very title, "untrue story", so you don't end up focused on the matter, in the end unimportant, of deciding whose cavities I filled earlier. For the dry truth is that either way, your own bed isn't getting any warmer nor does the consideration much help you otherwise.
Let's rather pass on to the essential point, which may help you or not, who knows, but at least it's not certain it can't. So. The brunette thought herself a smartass, perceived herself in a situation of superiority, and made lax by the implicit comfort gave an answer to show just how smartly ahead of the game she is. Normally she wouldn't have risked her muzzle, but once she put the birdy out (figuratively speaking), the call was no longer hers to make. And blondy, shier, provoked by this other one judged that she couldn't afford to refuse, because that'd open her up to the other's incessant, endless and cruel mockery over her timidity and cowardice, like women do. So she jumped in.
Two fundamental mechanisms were seen at work. Specifically, for the brunette, the fact that people are generally more inclined to follow than to lead, corroborated with the desire of seeming smarter than they are put her in the position of saying something for the sound of it, and then sticking to it to avoid the marked downside of going back on her word. For the blondy, the fear of the known and representable disadvantage (the brunette's dominance in the group) was judged larger than the fear of the perhaps more marked, but unknown and unrepresentable disadvantage of taking the passerby's organ to meet her tonsils. From the
unhappy interaction of these vices and defects there came something warm into their stomach (mostly the blondy's, for those interested in scientific rigour).
After I left they were left in a very particular situation : two cops that just sucked (licked, whatever) some passer-by in a gang. Such context is rather traumatic, and the answer can be in one of two veins : either they go mental, proceed to cry in church, hang themselves in the campus room they share, confess to their boss, quit etcetera ; or else they accept their new mutual status. They become very close friends, intimate outright, after all, they've sat together at the table. Generally in the psyche of the healthy female the latter solution is very heavily biased, and so it comes up with remarkable regularityx On average, let's say. So I'm going to risk predicting that in the next week they've pretty good chances of fucking, since they've started on the road, what's there to stop them ?
This'd be the secret mechanism of amorous-sexual living in a good majority of hominids. They pick themselves up and drop themselves into a club, where they get well drunk, for the plain and deliberate end goal of being in the sort of situation which probably produces themselves nude in a foreign bed and with a headache at the other end, the next morning.
After which, once in the situation, to decide that well... rather than cutting wrists how about calling the new object a "significant other". Do you recall that Seinfeld moment wherein Elaine recounts the story of her cocktail flu, acquired at a party the previous night where she drunkedly made out with some dude to the amusement of her colleagues, and as she recounts she realises that if she pretends to have a relationship with the guy then the whole item changes from a drunken bout of skunko-roman wrestling to a beautiful moment between two lovers ?
Well then. That's the relationship engine, that simple realisation that in the end perspective is the whole substance of human relationship, and you're at liberty to take any perspective whatsoever. A circumstance which puts a certain pressure on middling males : they know that if they manage to bring the female naked in the morning after, the relationship's all but guaranteed. So they do all they can towards this end, with all the awkwardness desperation bestows on their naturally awkward nature.
An observation which has the unpleasant effect of taking common rape (the majority of rape isn't the TV-ready species, with armed, aggressive psychopath laying in wait among the bushline ; but they're of the domestic kind, people who know each other, often closely) from the ideologic lands of absolutely abhorent behaviour and landing it nicely right in the midst of the warmest intimacy, directly proximate to the tritest of daily life.
Isn't it a great boon that the whole story was untrue from the very beginning ?
This story was originally published in Romanian, in 2010, as Poveste neadevarata.———
- Timisoara has a century-old tradition in socially-enforced humiliation of Jennifer Lawrence and her sisters : in the large plaza between church and Opera house, couples promenade on Sundays. On the right side, called the promenade, actual people. On the left side, called the surogate, non-people, such as maidens, fanciulle, slatterns, hussies etcetera. Aspirants, in a word, to the status of adult woman. [↩]
- For some reason they made a sort of City Security Guards Union, and gave them black uniforms. Complicated adventures in wasting money. [↩]
- Blanca huella que, todos los dias, clavado en el yugo, me ves picanear ; companera del largo camino las horas enteras te veo blanquear. Buey zaraza, tus ojos tristones mirando la huella parecen buscar etc. [↩]
- About $3`000 in alt-orc currency. [↩]
- Understand that if you hire suddenly a large number of not-old females without specific college degree requirements you will mostly hire (recently more-or-less reformed) hookers. This is an unavoidable fact. [↩]
- Storfet is a much better term for the conclave of young-adult women. For one thing, it's endearing. For the other, it's properly-respectful, which is to say respectful of what they are and unconcerned with what they wish to pretend to be, or be seen to pretend they're being or etcetera nonsense. [↩]
- That's how you call in this language one of those covered walkways which lead one into a Leyla Black courtyard. How do you call them in your language ?
Oh, wait, you don't have them in your language, like you don't have the courtyard or the leyla black. Aww. [↩]
- That's how you say lookout in Romanian. It's likely a WW1 invention (so soldier, rather than theft cant), and rather obvious : on traditional wristwatches, 6 indicates behind. So someone left behind's left sitting sixes. Amusingly, this won over the competing 22 (vingt-deux, voila les flics) for some reason. [↩]
- Hey, that's how you say things in Romanian, whadda ya want from me. Porcarii, literally, pig-things, is how you call the freely offered snacks in a house where they just cut the pig (still a yearly event in traditional families, scheduled more or less for mid December) or else doing pleasant, enjoyable things you shouldn't. Anglophones "pig out" with sweets, the civilised world pigs out on cock, what can I tell you. [↩]
- Which is precisely why it's so difficult for actually cool males to rape anyone -- it de-becomes rape retrospectively. [↩]