Remember that post from a while ago, in which I went over how my indifference made it difficult for me to start making videos? Me neither.
Anywho, I finally got over my OCD-like need to have a perfect, graphically beautiful intro all finished before posting a single video, and just got on with it. While I keep this blog for more…personal topics (I’ll be back to post more one day, promise!), my Twitter and Youtube accounts are where I do things like discuss politics, mock and troll, or some of both simultaneously. On Youtube, until now, that consisted of watching videos and commenting/getting involved in the discussion.
My verdict: Fuck, this took a while to edit! Hopefully it becomes easier as I fall into some sort of groove, or else I’ll quit and go back to just spectating and commenting on videos that others produce.
Anywho, if you think you may be interested in this kind of stuff, consider subscribing. That’s all I have for now. Until the next time!
– Jack The Perfectionist
My introduction to the term “Sperm Warfare” came by way of a book published in 1996, itself simply titled “Sperm Wars“. There’s dispute on whether sperm warfare is something that occurs with human sperm, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about. The most memorable parts of Sperm Wars are when the author, after describing deceitful reproductive strategies, would give color to them by adding short stories to demonstrate how these things can and do play out in the real world.
Today, while I continue speaking about a topic I started in a previous post, I’d like to tell you about
the time a time that I came pretty close to consciously playing out one of Sperm Wars’ short stories.
On this night, while laying with Giovanna during our usual pre-fuck chat-and-stroke, she told me that her (then) boyfriend’s condom broke the night before, and that he came inside of her. For whatever reason, they didn’t get a morning after pill (Having bought many of the cursed things in my time, I think I know why: They cost 50 fucking bucks!), so she was worried she might end up pregnant, and really disliked the idea of having a baby with a guy that she was basically dating for financial reasons (she was not turned on by him in the slightest, and he was a minute man to boot). Knowing what I know about human reproduction, I was aware that her getting pregnant wasn’t such a sure thing, and thus saw an opportunity…
So I leaned over her, placed my palm around the side of her neck, looked her in her eyes, and in a too-serious tone asked, “You know what I should do to you?”
a dandy admiring his own reflection
In past posts, I’ve made comments in passing about my “Game”, the most recent example being in “On Others’ Infidelity“. Since this topic will be central in upcoming stories, I think it’s time I said at least something on it.
The way I’ve put it previously is that my Game consists of me “showing up, looking pretty, and not shooing women away too sternly”, but I’d be lying if I said that was it. At least, presently. In the past, that would have been an accurate description. Today, it might look the same, but only to laymen. Oftentimes, Game is about what you don’t do.
Before learning proper Game, mine consisted of what pick-up artists call “Pretty Boy Game” and “Natural Game”. The former for being…well, pretty, and self-aware about it, and the latter coming from the dominant mindset that being found physically attractive by many women granted me (much of Game consists of miming or internalizing an “alpha male” attitude).
Some of these girls look a little young to play the part, don’t they?…
Seeming that I’ve used the term at least once or twice, I thought I should get around to sharing my thoughts on it. This can be a very divisive subject, but I have a bit I’d like to say about it.
My definition for the word “slut” is simple: A woman* that (seemingly) sleeps around indiscriminately.
*(More on this in a bit…)
Not as easy to follow, it seems, is when I state that my use of the word “slut” is descriptive, not normative. In other words, I’m not making a moral judgement when I use the term. In the past, I’ve had people jump down my neck when I’ve used the term, screeching that I’m a “slut shamer”, “sex negative”, or whatever the hell else kids are saying these days, but that’s based on their notions of the term, not mine.
I mean, wouldn’t it be a bit out of character for a guy that benefits from women’s looseness to be out to make them more sexually inhibited?
Let’s address that asterisk, though. So, why do I—unless I’m joking—reserve the term “slut” for women? The short answer is that I accept reality. Here’s the longer version:
This post is not about food…
In a previous post, I went over how I use “talking” as an aid to arouse and/or bring women to orgasm. While I went into some of the intricacies, I left out specifics. Today, I want to talk about one of those specifics, and the trouble it’s gotten me into. When I first learned, first hand, about the way that this specific topic turns some women into wild, reckless beasts, I was kind of taken aback.
You could say I was still a bit of a Committed Man at heart back then, and this meant that I actually believed that women were what they said they were. (Turns out these claims were mostly soulless regurgitations of characteristics they borrowed from the cultural narrative on feminine propriety…)
So, imagine naive Jack’s surprise when, upon first giving the subject of insemination a try during some of his mid-sex “talking”, it turned a woman that had previously behaved as if she was perfectly happy with condom use, into an aggressive, cum-fiending succubus. This was, of course, Liz.
It’s one of my fond memories. Just minutes before things went all crazy, she’d been posing nude for me to draw her, but that didn’t last long. Some time into our fuck session, while licking and nibbling on her ear lobe, I whispered that I wanted to dump all of my cum deep inside of her wet little pussy really badly, and she let out a moan like I’d never heard before. It was like an “Oh yes!” and an “Oh no, what have you unleashed?!”, all mixed into one. Oh, what came next…
In keeping with the theme of my last few posts, I wanted to share a story about a time in which my adventures with “taken” women actually went less than stellar. Navigating the seas of women can be rough, but never as much as when the other man is a friend, and the woman is a dunce.
The girl in question—we’ll call her “Caprice”—is what I’d call a social climber, though in this instance, she was more of a social lateral mover. Caprice met my friend, whom we’ll call “Duane”, after one of her girlfriends was invited to hang out by a co-worker of ours. I wasn’t around when this went down, but by the time I met her, Duane and her were already dating…more or less (more on this later).
It was at another social gathering with the same group of friends that I first met her. For Caprice, I think it was pretty much lust at first sight. I would have needed to be partly blind to miss the fact that she was eye-fucking me the entire night.
(Jeebuz! What is it with me always attracting sluts? Does my resting asshole face also read as an “I love sluts!” face?)
When the night wound down, and I was getting ready to split, Caprice asked to borrow my phone. Apparently, she’d left hers out in her car, and “needed” to call it to check her inbox. Now, maybe I have too much sex on my mind (it’s true), but I totally took this as her making a move on me. If you’re not convinced by the things that sex-crazed Jack tells himself, though, then consider that Duane was nearby, and his cell phone was sitting on the coffee table right in front of him. If you’re still not convinced about my assessment, then…keep reading.
(Or “Welcome To The Desert Of The Real, Lesson 1: No, We’re Not Actually Monogamous.”)
Something that’s always earned me a bit of hate, both online and off, is my apparent indifference towards “cheating”.
Human relationships being one of my central interests, I’ve often taken the liberty to add my thoughts to discussions about infidelity. The result, usually, is that I get dog pilled by a righteously indignant mob, so intent on remaining angry, that anything I say about cheating that isn’t prefaced with an absolute condemnation of the act is taken as me defending it. I’d argue this isn’t my story, however…