The body sore, mind tired, sleep is what is required for resurrection. The simplicity of a comfortable bed in a conditioned climate without demands being made on thee until the next morning is the recipe for a perfect night of sleep. Peaceful, comfortable rest, the true gift provided by the supple young woman who has been sharing her flavorful firm flesh and humble abode.

Entering the small and comfortable domain of her freshness, I see a familiar smiling face and feel a spark surge within — perhaps a bit more energy to erect the posture than anticipated.

“Hi! I didn’t know if you were coming tonight.”

“The less you know the better. It keeps me in your thoughts?”

“Maybe those aren’t such positive thoughts.”

“Maybe, but I am here to sleep, so...”

“You’re going to have to take the couch tonight.”

This is not what I had been looking for in my prosperously peaceful fantasy of rest. I stand, deciding if I should stay, given her insolence.

“Sara is sleeping in the bedroom.”

Sara?, I ponder, contorting my face as I try to place a figure with the name offered.

“I’ve told you about her. My friend from school? You saw her in the restaurant that one time? Remember, you said her boyfriend looked creepy old and ‘pretty boy soft’? What does that even mean?”

Click. Click. The pieces fall into place. Recalled. One of the dumbest people ever encountered, and she thought she was hot, which was just delusion confusion — she thinks hot and easy are synonymous. Because a dry man will anoint his sceptre of life in your blooming cesspool does not mean you are hot. Seems like common sense, but speciousness is more common than sense these days.

“Why are you standing there? Are you leaving? Because she’s here?”

It is a bit disconcerting how this lass is learning to read me, my thoughts. I may have to leave because she knows me too well, though I am not sure she knows me at all, for if she did she would kill me in her sleep...unless she is a bit off herself...

“Hello?” my smooth fleshed friend whispers to recall me to the conversation.

“Why can’t she sleep on the couch?”

“She’s already asleep in the bed. She’s been here crying all day. Maybe if you came home earlier...”

Home? Yeah, time to go and find a park bench.

I turn to leave, then hear a squeaky voice from behind offer a high pitched “Hi!”

Politely, I turn to offer my goodbye, and there before me stood the diminutively curvacious guest wearing nothing more than her underwear...sheer, tiny, lacy underwear.

“Sara! Put something on!”

“He’s your boyfriend. He’s seen a woman in ugly underwear before.”

“Hi,” I reply, deciding the couch offers more comfort, scenery and amenities than the park bench. “It’s fine,” I offer to dismiss my loudmouthed hostess.

“Of course it is, because...” hostess began replying, but was interrupted as Sara began to cry.

“What’s wrong with her?” I ask flesh fabulous.

My bad, I asked. It would be rude to tell them to shut up because I do not care, as I did ask. I listen to the mind numbing details of the pathetic relationship of the little woman I find more and more arousing as I stare at her nearly nude figure. I still do not care, but to enjoy the sight I feign interest.

Here is the thing: When someone stupid speaks, their attractiveness diminishes with every word. This Sara chick was turning into a shriveled hag in sheer cloth...but if we ignore the words and catch sight of the right curve and contour of flesh, the arousal begins anew...and then you hear her again. Perhaps I can go outside and peer through the window...

“What did you think he was going to do? His old girlfriend found you to let you know after a four year relationship he come out of the closet to her, and you thought he was gay because he hadn’t met you yet?” The rhetorical brought a new flood of tears, and needled my interest.

Apparently Sara was traumatized to learn that the man who had been living with her for years — he jobless and with whom she was going to marry to afford him her employer’s benefits — had been keeping secrets. No, not that he was gay, that was something he only told his girlfriend to make the breakup easier for her, he claimed. Nor was it that he had fathered two children from two women he never spoke of, it was that he had credit card debt equal to 3 years of her salary. Some things are unforgivable...

  • A man who is not interested in sex when you can be an avowed freak because he claims a random, spontaneous bad back, not because he is the homosexual his ex knows him to be; forgivable.
  • A man who has two children by two women, children he has not seen in years and has never told you about; forgivable.
  • A man who has lived off of you rent free for years, never picking up a tab or offering a cent or a gift, never doing anything, pursuing anything; forgivable.
  • A man who is willing to marry you specifically for your job’s spousal benefits; forgivable.
  • Man with all of the aforementioned ‘forgivable’ traits that has not told you about his credit card debt, which is thrice your annual salary; unforgivable.

There was no lingering doubt. The fantasy of a threesome was dismissed. Time to leave. Can one of any depth be in the company of such staggering stupidity? What kind of man would consider this a conquest, a feat? It seemed like it would be easier to make my dismissal by offering a few sincere words of clarity: “Require nothing of a lazy loser partner except to play photo accessory and that is what you will receive. If you had wanted a relationship with a man of character you would have held out for such a man.”

The tears were interrupted by a shriek, then my loyal nurse on loan felt the need to protect her friend.

“I can’t believe you would say that to her!”

Really? Does she not know?


“Yeah, I’m outta here.”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“I’m not really interested in a threesome with that coalescence of useably useless flesh. How can you have such a vacuous human being as a friend? Next thing you’re going to tell me is she’s a youth counselor.”

The mask of me headed for the door. The park bench, an alley dumpster, anything sounded more appealing than this affair. Without looking back, exit was made. Apparently the youth counselor comment was close, too close.

“Threesome!” my muse shouted, but I had already told her I was no longer interested. I had to escape the predictable vortex of hollow dreams.

If you want good for yourself, for your partner, demand good. If you want nothing desired of you, require nothing of your partner. Seems simple enough.

The elements were there for a great and delicious adventure into the unknown, if diminutive she had not scattered them about carelessly by speaking.

Good thing I left before suggesting she was with her soulmate and was fortunate to have even him. Real men do not covet vacuous...not for longer than 20 minutes...more or less.