God of the Game (Dreamstate) (39 page)

   All this time - after ten girls or so -
only pitiable I was relegated in the nude. That was my costume, my team jersey, and each time I molested their boobs to try get them over to my side, I was reprimanded and ordered to keep my hands to myself, which I cordially obeyed. If not, I was to be thrown out into the streets as I was, without any attire, which was a prospect that was chilling to the bone in a deviant intolerant social climate. 

    Then
, to cut the monotony of this stroking story, I met her; an immigrant from Chiang Mai who stopped me not when I inappropriately grabbed at her tits. She was quite cute in my opinion, and she was embarrassed rather than outraged when I pressed upon the immodest act, stating she was shy `cos her pair was small and insufficient. I assumed otherwise, for they appeared sizeable through the top of the blouse when I caught sight of them whilst she was washing my feet. And though it was a padded bra, the mounds of flesh still felt pretty substantial.

    When ha
ndjob commenced, I requested of her to remove the upper apparel. Why I asked, in all politeness, baffles, for it contradicted my clothed-female naked-male criteria for pusillanimous behaviour. Perhaps I was getting bored of the debasement, and wished now to level the playing field. But honestly, I think I tire of CFNM scenarios due to loneliness. It’s only so far the tease can get you, all pathetically turned-on but never a penny of emotion. I wanted and missed love, and it was impossible to love when you were naked, and she was not, throughout. It was impossible to love without intercourse, without shared nudity, without two bodies entwined exchanging fluids...and even...spirits. It was impossible. Just impossible.
I
was impossible! Incapable of love any longer. An erectile emotional dysfunction. 

    She shook her head, behaving all girly and demure, the way a girlfriend would on the advances
of the boy on their first night rather than as a professional offering soft sexual services. I persisted, and perhaps said something like, “How much?”

    She hesitated, unsure,
then raised three fingers. “Thirty. Yu pay me. For massas and hanjub yu pay ow-sai,”

    Thirty?! I was excited and sad.

    Excited for she was not greedy. The others demanded more. Not that I really knew, for I never offered anyone to flash before the present; but they did ask for a much bigger tip when bargaining over the burden they’d have to bear on their hands. Eyes gleaming over dollar notes, one Chinese chick even chuckled when I asked if she liked tugging my cock; her answer was a definite
no
, unless cash was splashed round the rocket and orbs like a money moat inundating two flabby, globular goldfishes persistently jumping out of green mossy water at a hard castle of rock. 

    Maybe it’s just the Thai demeanour, a more polite, less money monge
ring culture; and the Thai girl is the embodiment of that all-gentle decorous servant. Or perhaps it was just her.

    On the other hand, I wa
s sad because it was dirt cheap, and I felt she possessed such a low opinion of her lovely assets. C’mon, girls reading, back me on this –
thirty bucks to let a man ogle and grope your tits???

    Discounted slut!

    Whatever, the deal was struck. She rolled up the smock...and I saw. Damnit! She was right.
They
are
damn small. And they drooped to the sides in a kind of a silly frown.

    I just blew thirty.

    But regardless, I started to caress and rub her breasts even as she stroked my cock. Enjoyment began its descent from horny heaven, for at least she had hot nipples; and it dawned, this was the first pair I’d laid eyes on outside of a relationship.

    S
oon I squirted. I dressed; I paid. She introduced herself, and hoped for my return. But I was perturbed. Seeing boobs had a confounding aura over me. On some eerie level,
I really wanted to see her again
. Not any other, but her.
Only her
. I was in love...

    What???

    I fantasized being the knight in shiny armour, rescuing this damsel in distress from a dragon of debauchery. Saving her from demons, other perverse men and their unsheathed, shameless swords; I will free her from harlotry. Now, she is only to live for me, splay for me, go down on me. And in return, I will give her my love and protection. Take her shopping, splurge, become a sugar daddy. Gratified by her parade in designer clothes, and later, Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I will shower her with material possessions, and perhaps, even a supplementary credit card... for she is to be my sweet, sexy baby.

    Wonders what naked jugs can do to a man, screw with his brain. They were not even that beautiful to begin with, but now
, I’m at home, wanking over marital bliss to the mental conjuration of oblique boobs. I can’t sleep, and I’m daydreaming of visiting her again. This time, behold the triangulated display together with that organ down there. Perhaps even pay for a fuck.

    She’ll give me for free, I imagined, but this being only our second meeting, she coughs out a measly figure as a professional courtesy. Like the way she did with her tits. That’s why she’s
so cheap; she actually wishes not to sell herself. She just wants me to take it instead. For on an intrinsic level, she wants me as well. She’s attracted to me. She knows I can liberate her, bring her life-long fulfilment, security.

    Milk me of money.  

Like the way women do in general.

All girls are whores!
 

    There’s surely something deeper, something more profound, something more earnest in desire. Something wrong with me. As said, her peaks were the first witnessed beyond the perimeters of love (disregarding pornography), and sadly, I equated and fused this myopic vision to an all emotional bond. A miserable delusion, a rusty illusion.

    Thankfully logic had not completely left. Wisdom’s brood was still hanging around, gunning down stupid cupids. Rationalizing
there must
be a difference between Gee Ni and this bare breasted hand-prostitute from Northern Thailand, a chasm even wider when compared to my sanguine love. The lost years I’d spent and invested with them, genuine lovers, how can it be usurped by an hour in the arms of fleeting pleasure provided by a masseuse offering extra services?   

    I can’t love her. That’s the obvious conclusion.

    But how do I forget?   

66

    Simple. I have to gawk at other pairs of boobs.

    My saving grace... B2B. No, not business to business, angel;
body to body
. Massage by masseuses in the nude, handjobs by breasts wielding babes.

    Occasional CFNM humiliation.

    I had to detach the notion of mammary from love. And the more titties I saw, the more impersonal they became. Just two ridiculous fleshes of fruits which turned me on, and just so happen, my ex-girlfriends were lodged with them. 

    But to completely swap love for lust
is impossible. I still miss her, the woman who so impacted my life. That is why, now, even as a demigod, I cannot divorce those desires, but on the contrary, continually run back to the cleavage of love, bawling on meat pillows. Enamoured by the one and only goddess, the celestial mother with manifold visages; she who bore us all, nurtured us all, protected and guided us all; our queen, our matriarch, our wife and daughter; our universal whore.

    I seek her, but never find her. Only glimpses of her beauty in every lusted woman, shades, divine dust descending on all divas. But the glitter disappears, for no mortal
, or even eternal female, possesses that exquisite perfection; for all ladies are in the end made destitute by the decadence of men. And so true too is this dilemma echoed in the planes of the gods. In fact, this flaw flowed from the Garden of Eden, when we were yet still deities. Spineless Adam lost Eve to competition. Spineless Adam lost Eve to the Serpent. And cast out from paradise, he’d been trying to woo her back ever since. But she always prefers the Serpent, who is darker and more mysterious, and dangerous. She forever falls for the bad boy who abuses her, beats her, manipulates her, and sadistically tortures her heart till it’s broken and marred and ugly. Till her hotness is melted off her; then only Eve regretfully returns to Adam, all emotionally derailed, and clingy, and mascara molten by tears. Poor man, he is blasted by the pathetic side of love; he must be contented with that sorry bag of skin, which is her remnant, which is the opposite of his desires. What he honestly wants is her beauty, but the devil’s robbed him of it already.  

    So
, who do you really want to be, Mr. Man? The good guy? Or the diabolical dark gentleman? 

    But what or
who
the hell I truly seek, I don’t know. Perhaps a woman beyond all this childish play, a woman who cannot be seduced by the charms of the Serpent, a woman bigger than my cock, elevated above my ego. A woman unaffected by worldly concerns.

    She does not exist on Earth, not even on numerous strata of heavens. So
, what is a heartbroken, tired of love man stuck on Earth to do? He carries on with his charade, and he writes a second novel, one on the adventures of Mr. Dick going around the world. The royalties he gets from this, he spends on more exotic ‘cocktails’ for his cock...tales.

67

Charles Schmuck, Dilidos and the Grinlock featuring Anna Doreen

    It all happens with an epileptic fit. A seizure on a train and the emergency button is pressed. Onlookers too stunned for motion, a few panicking, and two good Samaritans dragged a convulsing old lady out to the platform of the next station where the locomotive grinds to a creaking halt.

    Dilidos is clapping his hands like a bludgeoning chimpanzee, his legs stamping
, as if doing the tap-dance steps of a mechanical primate. The antiquated machine with the carbon-cloud chugging steam engine was coming right out of the HD3DTV and into our living room, and before we realized, an ER drama was unfolding before our very eyes.

    Charles, whose family name, Schmuck, is Yiddish for penis, or in some cases
, discarded foreskin, a person of no use, a prick, jerk, bastard, is just standing put, munching a turkey sandwich, watching the golden citizen die. He’s got two sides to his character, one, a pushover, a doormat, but turn him over, and he could hurt you in cold blood.

    But Charles is generally well mann
ered. Speaks softly, sits cross-legged, and takes small bites; unlike Dilidos, who is more of an in your face, puts his nose where it does not belong, kind of a person. If there is a hole, literally and figuratively, he’ll be loitering nearby.

    The Grinlock
, on the other hand, does not speak. He suffers from locked jaw, fixing his expression into a perpetual grin. He is one of those helping, but with an insensitive face like that, the paramedics think he’s mocking them, and command him to go stand at a corner.

   
I
was just waiting for the bell, for recess to end. I can’t wait to go back to class. But looks like fun time is being extended; JC’s allowing it. The common hall of our sanatorium, this madhouse, has just been redecorated into a colonial railway station. Whose main arse is programming this play, I wonder? Probably Charles Schmuck, I reckon, by the way he’s sitting in silent stare, savouring each morsel of that poor lady turning bluer with each bite of his fowl-filled honey-toasted bun.

    The rescue mission wa
s torn asunder. No one wants the paramedics to succeed anymore. We would rather the woman bite her own tongue off in spasms and suffocate. “
Let her die! Let her die!
” came the schoolboy chants. The med guys are intimidated. On the one hand, they want her to survive. On the other, they just want to give up, succumb to peer-group pressure. In the end, they cave in and join the party.

    Music starts to the rhythm of her
death-contracting motions. When life exits the stage, and her limbs stop the
groovy
, Dilidos secures a rope and we are to take turns controlling the puppet body. But children, as fathers are aware, cannot share, so some wise ass decides to make her an automated zombie instead. The corpse is dancing to Michael Jackson’s Thriller; even better than the King of Pop ever. She boogies to her déjà vu loop of a dream - a trance astral sentence which epileptics suffer during the
battle of seizures
- but not yet hitting the second chorus, the boys are bored and so discarded that ragdoll flesh to be crushed under the iron wheels of the coal-charring choo-choo. Grinding cadaver as it rolls out to its next destination – Hogwarts of Harry Porter fame - I heard someone scream.

    A fat, ruddy-
countenanced boy standing next to me tells me to ignore. He then said in between Kit Kats that the rail traverses legends. “Here,” he swigs out an iPad and shows the entire route of bestseller and blockbuster worlds it links.

   “You see the dotted lines here?”