The MasterClass Experience

She adored it when he used her.

Truly used her for his pleasure.

She loved the feeling of him.

The feeling as he grew in her mouth.

Her tongue running up and down his shaft.

Her lips enveloping the head of his cock.

Feeling his hardness.

Enjoying the texture.

The veins on his cock.

She loved the taste of him.

Feeling his cock fill her mouth.

He loved using her.

Using her for his own selfish pleasures.

Fucking her.

Filling her.

Stretching her.

Listening to her moan.

Grabbing a fistful of hair.

Forcing her head back so he could look into her eyes.

Fucking her filthy little mouth.

Watching her eyes bulge as his cock entered her throat.

Feeling the hunger of her accepting mouth

The hunger that built from her watching him get turned on.

He loved fucking her greedy little mouth.

Her lips stretched and wrapped around his cock.

The pretty lipstick smears on her face and his cock.

Watching her struggle as he plunged deeper and deeper.

He loved how she sacrificed her air for him.

Sacrifice born from the need to please him.

Sacrifice born from need to pleasure him.

Sacrifice born from the need to give him her all

She sits in the chair as tasked by him.

Wearing a loose fitted dress with no panties.

Nervous.

Not knowing what he has planned.

He lowers himself in front of her.

Tying a soft, velvet blindfold around her head.

Removing one of her senses, knowing the others will heighten and come to life.

Once affixed, his hands lower to her wrists.

His hands gripping her wrists, pinning them to the armchair.

He leans forward, his lips so close to hers, but not touching.

She smells him.

That beautiful mixture of expensive aftershave, mixed with a manly scent.

She inhales, the smell so alluring, creating a heady feeling within her.

She feels the wetness of his tongue as he ever so gently licks her lips.

Soft, smooth, warm wetness, coating her top lip and following along to the bottom.

Her chest beginning to rise and fall.

The effects of the combined roughness of his grip on her wrists, mixed with the erotically gentle touch of his tongue on her lips begins to infect her mind, batter her senses and invade her body.

His lips touch hers.

A slight, gentle but highly erotic kiss.

She feels herself respond.

Urgency to connect with him, connect with his flesh.

He pulls away as she pushes her head forward, his lips lightly massaging hers.

The sensation of tenderness flowing through her body.

She feels herself come alive.

That shudder through the body as the feeling of lust begins to brew and build.

He whispers in her ear to lay her head back and enjoy.

He doesn’t let go of her wrists, but she feels him lower himself further.

She feels him grip her dress with his teeth and drag it up over her hips, exposing her in the most vulnerable but sexy of ways.

He leans forward and kisses the inside of her thigh.

Tender, gentle and confronting kisses.

So light and teasing.

She feels him work his tongue up along her inner thigh.

Her cunt comes to life, imagining what is to come.

She feels the wetness build as quickly as her desire to feel his tongue on her needy, desperate little cunt.

His tongue continues its upward journey along her inner thigh.

She feels the hotness of his breath and the wetness of his tongue as it ventures closer and closer.

His tongue now just millimetres away, she feels her body shudder and a moan escapes her mouth.

Her hips push forward, but he is ready for that reaction.

His tongue transfers to her other thigh and begins to dance.

Dance downwards towards her knee.

She moans louder, wanting, craving, needing to feel him take her in his mouth.

To suck, lick, nibble and bite.

To feel him as he makes love to her with his mouth.

But that will take some time today.

Today he will tease her.

Edge her.

Taste her.

Feel her.

She no longer owns her orgasms.

He does...

We are who we say we are.

Is the woman who applies make up everyday ‘being herself”? How about the woman with implants, is she ‘being herself’? What about the woman wearing high heels becasue it boosts her height 4 inches? Is the girl you see in nothing but party pics on FaceBook being herself? Lets turn it the other way, what of the woman wearing a business suit that emphasizes her shoulders with pads in the jacket is she ‘being herself’? If she colors her hair does this make her less genuine?

If being ourselves is an idealized state then I should reasonably be able to expect a like-minded fitness model to be attracted to me even if my greatest passion is to sit on my couch, eat a large pizza and wash it down with a 6 pack of Michelob while watching Monday Night Football, right? After all, I am just being myself – it’s who I am.

Believe and so you shall become

The hardest distinction the uninitiated have with the JBY (just be yourself) dynamic is that personality is malleable. Personality is always in flux. The person you are today isn’t who you were 2 years ago, nor the person you’ll be 2 years from now. There are traits and characteristics we may carry with us for a lifetime, but even these are subject to change depending upon circumstance. You define what being yourself is at any given moment and it’s relative to your personal conditions and environment. So where do you draw the line? When does a genuine change of character become legitimate rather than being ‘shallow’ or ‘superficial’? Those are just catch terms that women (and too many chumps) have used with success over the centuries and men have internalized as being states of perception that women think are undesirable, yet they never accurately define. Rather, they stay intentionally ambiguous and relative to an individual woman’s interpretation, while their behaviors indicate their own motivations.

You are who you believe you are, and you are who she perceives you to be.

One of the hardest things for anyone, male or female, to hear is that they need to change their lifestyle because it implies that their just ‘being themselves’ is in some way at fault for their present conditions. It’s analogous to telling someone they’re not living their lives ‘correctly’ or that they’re raising their kids wrong. If I have a friend that is shooting heroin and I actively encourage him to stop and make an effort to help him ‘clean up’, society calls me a hero or a savior. When I encourage my friend to quit smoking before she gets cancer, I’m a concerned good-friend helping my friend with a health risk behavior. But when I tell a friend he needs to change his approach to women and this is a reason for his unhappiness and he needs to change his outlook on, and approach with women, look better and feel better, then I’m a ‘shallow’ prick and insensitive to his ‘problem’. Worse still is even attempting to offer constructive criticism, in as positive a light possible, that a person can improve themselves by changing their outlook and modifying their behavior.

Personality is not only malleable, but it can change dramatically under specific conditions. An easy example of this is veterans with post traumatic stress disorder. These men were exposed to traumatic environments that fundamentally altered their personalities. While this is an extreme illustration it proves that becoming a ‘different person’ is a matter of conditions. If my conditions are such that I enjoy sitting at home eating a whole pizza, washing it down with a six pack of Budweiser and watching Anime on a Friday evening, can I realistically expect that hot fitness instructor at the gym to come on over and genuinely want to fuck my brains out? And why not? After all I’m only being myself and she should “love me for who I am”, right? If this were my case, the conditions that define my personality are incongruous with attracting and/or maintaining a relationship with someone whose conditions are not my own.

JBY is an operative social convention that aids hypergamy.

Women are only too happy to endorse and reinforce JBY for the conscious reasoning that it ‘sounds like the right thing to say’. It’s an unassailable position; who wouldn’t want you to be you? If what counts is all on the inside then anyone telling you to change MUST be manipulating you for their own selfish reasons. This dovetails nicely into the popularized fat-acceptance self-acceptance mantra most women will fall back on when the impact of the Wall begins to manifest itself in their physiques and they want to be loved for “who they are” rather than what they used to look like. However, on a subconscious level, the latent purpose of fostering the JBY social convention in men is yet another sexual selection filtering mechanism. Actually it’s more of a filtering failsafe in that by socially mandating a genuineness in the general populace of men, women are more secure in the accuracy of their sexual assessment of men. If all men are Just Being Themselves and are encouraged to be the person they ‘truly are’, this then aids a woman in determining which man will best satisfy her hypergamy.

As I’ve stated in many a prior post, women claim to want honesty from men, but no woman wants full disclosure. In a general sense I advise this because it serves to sustain a Man’s aura of mystery, only to be progressively discovered by women with the appropriate levels of interest and responsiveness to men. However, another reason to remain deliberately ambiguous is to defuse the JBY dynamic that women assume would be a man’s default psychology.

JBY is a tool in maintaining the feminine imperative as the social imperative. Furthermore JBY serves in optimizing hypergamy in aiding a woman’s sense of security about assessing which man will best suit her hypergamy. Ironically, the JBY dynamic gets upended once a monogamous relationship is established by a woman’s anxiety for ‘fixing’ her partner once in that relationship. What was once the pseudo-genuineness of just him being himself is replace by “I’m working on him” in order for him to become the ideal man to meet with her hypergamic approval – thus exposing the calculated nonsense JBY really is to begin with.

We are who we say we are

We can alter our own personalities and have them altered by our conditions or any combination of the two, but to suggest that personality is static is a falsehood. The trap is to think that altering personality is in anyway disingenuous – there are certainly teriffic ‘actors’ or ‘poseurs’, and the like, that when we are confronted with them we sense (or even know) that they are pushing an envelope that they may not be entirely comfortable with, but there is merit to a ‘fake it till you make it’ doctrine. We only percieve it as being ‘false’, ‘superficial’ or as “trying to be something your not” when we have a concept or knowledge of a previous set of personality behaviors. If you met a likable cocky-funny guy at a club this weekend, how are you to know whether he’s the real deal or stretching the limits of his personality if you’ve never met him before?

When I’m hunting, I view a girl who crosses my path from the bottom up. Her legs, after seeing so many thousand pairs, reveal to me her body’s size and shape, even if she’s wearing a long winter coat. I look away if the legs are misshapen or lumpy, not daring to risk accidental eye contact. Otherwise, my eyes move upward, excitedly, to see what kind of chest, face, and hair she has. I then make a snap judgement of her overall condition and if she’s worth my effort.

When a girl passes my visual inspection, she’ll have at least a good body and an average face with one unique quality that is exquisite. That’s more than enough to pursue a night or two of sex, but for more than that, I need much more—I need a face that I could love.

A face that I could love may not contain the most beauty, or the least amount of flaws, but it is a face that I’d enjoy looking at every day for the rest of my life, one that I would instinctively risk my life for if a group of men more barbarian than me tried to take her away. A face that I could love will still contain objective beauty, because a man of my experience and age can’t be anything but a widower of beauty, but I rather stay alone than to be with an ugly face that I cannot possibly love.

A face that I could love will not be the same face that you could love, and that’s something we should both be grateful for. I can try and describe it to you, the softness of her cheeks, the silent invitation of her eyes, the gentle moistness of her lips, but it would just give you the wrong idea. A face that I could love can not be measured or quantified. If I explained it to a police sketch artist, he’d up drawing a monstrosity, because the heart cannot put into words what it wants. A face that I could love is imprecise, maybe awkward even, but always beautiful, like the the first flight of a bird after its mother encourages it out of the nest.

Love is a decision. When you perceive that a girl is deserving of your love, you let go. You turn off your shield so things happen as they may. While she may refuse that love, and stab you in the back with a hundred serrated knives, the decision must be made for you to feel what is love.

If you do not make the decision for love, the end will be decided at the beginning. When the novelty of her energy or naked body fades, or she dares to do something the least bit bothersome that you wouldn’t even notice on a girl who has a face that you could love, you’ll end it hastily, cruelly, without regret. The course of events with a new girl is written in the first meeting, if not the first minute, if not in the first moment you glance at her, top to bottom or bottom to top, with a most careful examination of her face. None of this requires your conscious awareness. You know if you will love her before you know if you will love her.

When I’m with a girl who has a face that I cannot love, I avoid her eyes. What a waste to be with such a girl! I’ll get some orgasms from her, as cheaply as I can get them, but the time it takes to get an orgasm from a face that I cannot love means I miss out on the opportunity, the chance meeting, with a face that I could love, but the need for sex is stronger than the need for love, and even easier to satisfy, so it’s sex I have pursued for so many years and sex that I will continue to pursue, but I know this is a devil’s bargain, for while I can experience the sexual satisfaction of sultans of old, the chance of love fades with every new girl.

The better I’ve become at gaining sex, the less I am open to the possibility of love, and sometimes at night, when I lay on my bed before going to sleep, I wonder what would happen if I write off sex completely to just talk to girls who have a face that I could love, a face I see once every several weeks, often while looking at the face of a man whom she already loves. I fall asleep. The anonymous women who come in and out of my dreams seem to mirror the ones that come in and out of my life. The pattern holds firm, the grey hairs steadily increase in number, and my motivation to work for women fades, so I greedily hold on to any short-term pleasure while the chance of making a sacrifice for a face that I could love becomes ever more improbable, until it will finally disappear. My heart will give up soon, and then it will be hard to look at faces anymore.