I met an exceptional prick in a popular metropolitan club. I was already eighteen and confidently took part and won a competition held there. While receiving my sash, crown, and a prize bottle of alcohol, I noticed a bloke at a neighboring table staring at me. Not long after, I was brought a drink from him. I thanked him and we began talking.
He was a journalist – cool, swaggering, interesting, a little strange, commanding and vigorous, conversing with ease, captivating. The diverse men drew me irresistibly. It was obvious he had a ton of women, but he admitted that my demeanor provoked him, and he insisted we get acquainted.
I began to go out with him.
Our dates were a little crazy. He’d call, we’d make arrangements, he’d pick me up somewhere and we’d be off, without him telling me where we were going or who we were meeting with. His moves were fearless, he oozed confidence and overwhelming audacity. He normally took me to popular places, where we sat in the company of famous people.
He liked to screw me unexpectedly – at hotels, public buildings, a couple of times in a bathroom while we were at a party. He was powerful, a little wild, uncertain and prone to rash behavior. At the table gathering with lots of people he’d at times declare that I was perverse, that I have super tits and a firm pussy. He’d tell it to other women; some were startled, some laughed, and others would give him a chilling look and disappear.
However, he made one mistake – he tried to pawn me off onto his boss. He was shoving me towards him the whole evening, then left me alone in his apartment and vanished. His boss, who had a popular public persona, kept on saying throughout the night what smooth and soft skin I have, kept trying to touch me and when we were left alone, passionately began to kiss and undress me.
But I felt uneasy. I was still naive, not understanding what had happened. I fell into a dumb bewilderment, shifting into fear. I thought I had a relationship but was passed up for some advantage.
His boss turned out to be a decent person – he saw my lack of desire for him, stopped and simply ordered me a taxi. That instance made me sober up and I discontinued the dates with the “collector”, even though he screwed me heartily and dominantly. He failed only when trying to tactlessly fuck me over, and so it didn’t last.
This man however, showed me, that even the bohemian and flashy kind of life had its minuses and that it’s not good to vacillate from one extreme to another. I still think of him at times; I feel that if I heard he’d passed, I would tell myself – sad, but he led a full life…
From “Perverse games” by Emmа Tommova