By Mark Verve © 2010
Everyone on the set knows that she'll never rise above the status of fluffer. It's just a matter time until she figures it out. I've watched her for several weeks now as she earned two hundred dollars a day plying her trade on command. She does her work day after day with a surprising enthusiasm. It almost appears as if she enjoys it. She strikes me as a pleasant enough person in the few conversations we've had. Her stated goals revolve around the standard model/actress track she thinks she's on. The full lips are straight out of central casting.
At first the climax to the Fluffhead jam would come to my mind when she jumped into action. For me it was like her theme song. I'd hear Fluffheeeeaaaad........ Repetition killed that so now she just blends into the background amid the muffled sounds she creates. During down times she chains and intently surfs the gossip sites occasionally moving those lips during periods of higher concentration. She and most of the other girls look like they should be working retail at the mall. Soon she'll ask Clint for an on camera part for the umpteenth time and he'll turn her down again citing bad timing.
Unbeknownst to her she has her assigned role and reached the glass ceiling on her first day. That's the brutal reality of this business, the classic a place for everyone and everyone in their place. It's a straight up appearance based hierarchy. The men are judged on other criteria. Don't like it? See ya, there's plenty more where you came from. Disposable is not far from the truth. He probably already has her replacement selected. They're usually somewhat plain but clean up well enough to keep the actors interested. No previous technical proficiency is required as there is plenty of on set coaching available.
As a rule they differ from the on camera talent. That goal is a tall slender model type but reality settles for a cooperative eight that shows up more or less on time and semi-sober. He finds most of them in the higher end strip clubs and they usually have a monkey. He panders to the monkey with quality as he explores and expands their boundaries as needed. I'm sure they don't arrive naïve or inexperienced as this is the clinical version of what most do privately. I suspect many of them can't resist the supposed shot at stardom and may even take pay cuts to join in.
I entered this scene as the pseudo manager for two of my dancer friends. Actually I was just looking for a little adventure as they were by no means manageable. They are so desirable that my presence is tolerated. One has a monkey and the other is just a freak. They were into it before I met them and knew I'd be interested in the experience. I regularly sample the goods but much of their filmed performances are ground breaking to me. It seems I don't elicit the same enthusiasm or veracity but still appreciate the comps.
Clint made it clear to me that no management fees were forthcoming from him. That told me he bought the manager story. He and I settled into a detente as he thought the three of us would soon be spent and on our way. I found the whole experience compelling in a slovenly kind of way. There is an undeniable soul searing element to this enterprise. I won't say it starts the damage just that it furthers existing damage. No regular person would consider this path. I've always wondered where this stuff came from and who makes it.
Word is that Clint started in the business as a manager of a low level strip club in Vegas. One of those old school single story dumps in the industrial section west of the Strip. When he wasn't chasing company tail he had his finger to the wind. According to Clint one day a Money Guy from the Valley stopped by on a recruiting trip for an indie and juiced him for information. The MG scored three candidates on Clint's suggestions and ended up making his flick. That led to hosting more trips and it accelerated from there. Clint then moved into a city wide recruiting mode. He soon angled his way into the industry as a producer and started collecting for himself. That was just over a year ago.
Since then he has established himself as a solid industry low life. He's known for making videos with a semblance of a plot. He pays a few USC film students to write a series of ten minute vignettes that have some sort of a thread. He creatively labels them Valley Girls 1, 2, 3, etc. and has a serial going. His product is selling well for now in a competitive market place. In addition to the DVD sales he streams them on the net for subscribers. Rumor has it that he grosses a high five figures each month. I did the math and think it's possible.
He's married to an attractive older woman with big hair that probably brought the original bankroll. She sits quietly on the set in a high directors chair in her industry standard mini. Most of the time she pumps her crossed leg while reading magazines, chewing gum, and filing her nails. When she stands up it sometimes creates a Sharon Stone moment for the ever vigilant crew. I don't understand the appeal and think it's like bringing sand to the beach. I concluded that there's probably some type of a prop bet on each event. Perhaps it's related to timing, frequency, magnitude, or duration. I've asked but they won't let me in as I'm considered an outsider.
All of this is happening in an established upscale neighborhood in the West Hills area of the Valley. There's an underground world of real estate rentals that provide locations for the industry. It's run by an agent that used to be talent but moved on after her expiration date. As the economy tanked rental rates came down as more owners registered. This house has the requisite infinity pool and privacy from the neighbors. According to the crew it's the best location yet. The entire acre is shielded from view by tall trees and shrubs that also muffle the sounds. There's plenty of enclosed parking in the front behind a massive solid wooden gate for the dozen cars and equipment trucks.
One morning I drove the girls in and we had the top down enjoying the warm Southern California sunshine. Just as I finished punching the code into the gate, the neighbor and his wife emerged from their gate in a Mercedes. I glanced over at them and he waved. He put the car in park and they both emerged and started in our direction with smiles. I didn't really want to meet them but now had no choice. They looked middle aged and were wearing conservative business attire.
We are coached to keep a low profile in the neighborhood during shoots. It's common knowledge that the majority of industry films are made in the Valley. Don't need any complaints about filming without a permit and the resulting awkward questions. I gave them both my best good morning as did the girls. They seemed friendly enough and just wanted to know if we were the new owners and to introduce themselves. I told them the standard story that we were renting short term, led quiet lives, and were rarely home. They seemed satisfied and we continued to make small talk.
Just then and right on cue two car loads of talent drove up honking their horns. It was like some invisible director had just yelled Action! We watched along with the neighbors as the scene unfolded. The first car was blasting speed metal and the other carried the woo-who girls hanging out of the windows. The second driver proudly flashed us while giving the devil horns with an oddly contorted face. She had almost rear ended the first but managed to stomp the brakes just in time jerking all their heads forward in unison. I glanced at the neighbors who now stood statue still. I think that he was enjoying it but Miss Hathaway had an expression like she had just sucked on a lemon or gotten a facial.
It appeared that the party had gone all night and was now commuting to work. They were probably in no condition to understand my situation with the neighbors. I waved meekly as they passed by not wanting to appear too enthusiastic. The gate closed behind them providing us with an instant silence. It was like a scene from a party movie and was over in less than half a minute. In my mind there really wasn't much more to say and I definitely didn't want to answer any questions. I just smiled, shrugged and re-punched the code. When the gates opened I said goodbye and quickly pulled in leaving them alone with their thoughts.
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
Showing posts with label Mark Verve. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mark Verve. Show all posts
February 01, 2011
December 01, 2010
Santa's Vice
By Mark Verve © 2010
I immediately waved to the bouncer as a line had been crossed. He was busy watching the new Thai dancer. Studying her was more like it. Probably filling his RAM with skippy whipping material for later I thought. He saw me after the second or third wave. As expected he casually moved over in my direction. As a rule the VIP room bouncers are told to be discreet. Wouldn't want to disrupt the atmosphere by causing a commotion right? This bouncer had worked the room for the past three weeks. He looked like an MMA wanna be and had a snake tat crawling out of his collar towards his left ear. I met him in the middle of the room and shouted to be heard over the music: "That FREAK just exposed himself."
"OK, I'll handle it. Go back downstairs," he replied.
I started toward the stairs. I knew what handle it meant. He'll ask the customer if he'd like to invite another dancer to join him. Chances are she'll be more relaxed about his needs. I should have known it was too good to be true. I mean, thirty minutes into my shift on Christmas Eve and I get a VIP request? As I passed by the bar I noticed the guy dressed in a full Santa outfit. He'd been in the night before and said he enjoyed the dance I gave him. I laughed to myself and wondered where Mrs. Claus thought he was tonight. If this was his only vice the kids were safe. He motioned me over and I signaled that I'd be right back. I headed to the locker room to check my make up. The door swung open and Riley appeared.
"Back so soon?" she asked.
I gave her a one word reply: "Freak."
"Sorry baby," she said as she adjusted her tube top and headed back into the smoke and noise.
The locker room was full of the usual drama. Lost jewelry, lost clothing, crying, an argument in the corner...whatever. I tried to ignore it and moved quickly to the nearest mirror. Just as I'd thought, the Freak had had smudged my rouge when he cradled my face as I was straddling him.
"Stacy," he said with a Russian accent, "Are you the adventurous type?"
Adventurous seems to be the new code word for good to go. At the time I just laughed it off and hoped he had just stumbled upon the word. Nope, ten minutes later he shared his definition and I was back downstairs. I knew him as a regular with a taste for blondes. Why he picked me I'll probably never know.
The bright lights of the locker room reveal the shocking physical truths about dancers. Stretch marks, dark circles, surgery scars, regrettable tattoos, burns, cheese, bruises.....you name it we've got it. Customers only see us in the dimly lit rooms outside. In this case ignorance is bliss. I'm convinced a dark club turns any five into a nine and makes her profitable for the night. It reminded of the time I returned to the club in the late morning for a meeting. They were replacing some of the couches that line the walls. The old ones were in the alley when I arrived. The crushed red velor was torn, soiled, and stained with spilled drinks and god knows what other types of fluids. No one would ever consider sitting on them if they knew.
My day had started hours earlier with some last minute Christmas shopping with my friend Colleen. We'd met at the club and became quick friends. I was attracted to her kind heart and unaffected attitude. She's a red headed stunner with alabaster skin but seldom used her power. Sometimes it seemed she was truly unaware of it. She was most comfortable off duty as a tomboy. Customers loved her and enjoyed seeing two of her three pink parts. I fantasized about being with her but had never told her so. Probably never will. She was outwardly more feminine than I could ever be but I wanted her to be my butch. I arrived at her condo on the west side about noon. She had just finished a phone conversation with her latest boyfriend now turned loser and was upset. Colleen is unable to tell the difference between sex and love so she regularly fell victim to men that could. I tried to explain that she'd never have trouble finding sex but love was a completely different animal. She may never understand.
We made our way to the local mall and joined the masses. She calmed down on the way over and we decided to have a drink and quick lunch at Ricardo's. We sat on the rail in the patio area surrounded by mall traffic. It was great for people watching but we had to swat the flies that gathered. Red heads are like a beacon. I should have known better as this had happened before. They try to make a play despite the fly rings we both were wearing. It used to be funny but lately it was just an annoyance. Even the waitress seemed interested with a little too much small talk that turned personal.
Some of our conversation involved the club and the recent arrests of three dancers for lewd behavior. It seems that the local vice squad had sent undercover cops to harass us again.
"I heard that they took Cheyenne out two nights ago," said Colleen. "Sky said she was crying hysterically and almost had to be carried out of the office."
I could not get a third citation as that would mean a mandatory ninety day suspension not to mention the fine. With a kid and a mortgage it would be a disaster. I'd gotten two warning citations six months ago for no reason but fighting them was nearly impossible. It was their word against mine.
"Just be real careful with contact and play it straight for a while," I said.
Easier said than done it thought. We agreed to have breakfast after our shifts that night.
After finishing my makeup I returned to the bar area and walked up to Santa. He greeted me with a reserved smile. I suggested we move to a booth and he agreed bringing his Evian with him. He wasn't much for small talk and asked for a lap dance. We sat in awkward silence for a minute until a new song started. He didn't get touchy or ask me to sit next to him while we waited. He just sat there with his hands folded in his lap. Everything was just like last night. When the music started I moved in front of him and took off my top. He never stopped looking into my eyes. I moved to straddle him and just then my left heel strap broke. I almost fell into his lap but held myself up. I felt the inside of my right breast brush his fake beard and nose. It felt like stiff cotton candy. He didn't react at all....not even a flinch. I laughed nervously, took off my other shoe and continued. When the song finished he paid me and I left to make repairs.
Back in the locker room I was putting on my back up heels when I saw Samantha approaching out of the corner of my eye. She's the House Mother for the club. A kind of counselor, friend, and know-it-all for the dancers. Got a problem or an issue? Ask Sam. Need your thong repaired or forget a tampon? Sam's the one. I try to steer clear except when I tip her out. She loves drama and is more trouble than she's worth.
"Stacy, Turk wants to see you in his office." She almost said it with glee in her voice.
"What about?" I asked. "Didn't say, just that he wants to see you now."
Emphasis on now. I went to my locker and got out my red jacket. It was as business like as I could look in my school girl outfit.
Turk's office is on the other side of the club by the liquor storage room. The cheap bastard likes to keep an eye on that door. He's a smarmy chubby thirty-something with the beginnings of a comb over. I think of him as George Costanza with an bad attitude. I'd been in there twice before. Once when I was hired and again a week later when he called me in to discuss my "future" at the club. He'd picked up on my vibe that I knew the score and laid off. Girls that don't know any better probably fall for that ruse when Turk makes his play. I'm sure he gets several a month with that tired bullshit.
When I entered the room there were two uniforms standing in front of Turk's desk. Turk looked at me and then the floor. The female told me their names and explained that they were doing a lewdness investigation. Lewdness? I couldn't believe it. I started to panic inside as a suspension would be a disaster. There must be a mistake. I had only given one dance in the main room since I'd arrived. I doubted that the Russian would have reported anything and besides nothing happened up there. That left Santa. Other than my heel strap breaking nothing had happened there either.
"What's the problem?"
"We have a witness that claims lewd contact during a lap dance," she explained.
"But I've only given one dance tonight and that was for the guy in the Santa suit," I protested.
The female cop seemed sympathetic. She looked up from her paperwork and said, "Sorry honey, Santa's vice."
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
I immediately waved to the bouncer as a line had been crossed. He was busy watching the new Thai dancer. Studying her was more like it. Probably filling his RAM with skippy whipping material for later I thought. He saw me after the second or third wave. As expected he casually moved over in my direction. As a rule the VIP room bouncers are told to be discreet. Wouldn't want to disrupt the atmosphere by causing a commotion right? This bouncer had worked the room for the past three weeks. He looked like an MMA wanna be and had a snake tat crawling out of his collar towards his left ear. I met him in the middle of the room and shouted to be heard over the music: "That FREAK just exposed himself."
"OK, I'll handle it. Go back downstairs," he replied.
I started toward the stairs. I knew what handle it meant. He'll ask the customer if he'd like to invite another dancer to join him. Chances are she'll be more relaxed about his needs. I should have known it was too good to be true. I mean, thirty minutes into my shift on Christmas Eve and I get a VIP request? As I passed by the bar I noticed the guy dressed in a full Santa outfit. He'd been in the night before and said he enjoyed the dance I gave him. I laughed to myself and wondered where Mrs. Claus thought he was tonight. If this was his only vice the kids were safe. He motioned me over and I signaled that I'd be right back. I headed to the locker room to check my make up. The door swung open and Riley appeared.
"Back so soon?" she asked.
I gave her a one word reply: "Freak."
"Sorry baby," she said as she adjusted her tube top and headed back into the smoke and noise.
The locker room was full of the usual drama. Lost jewelry, lost clothing, crying, an argument in the corner...whatever. I tried to ignore it and moved quickly to the nearest mirror. Just as I'd thought, the Freak had had smudged my rouge when he cradled my face as I was straddling him.
"Stacy," he said with a Russian accent, "Are you the adventurous type?"
Adventurous seems to be the new code word for good to go. At the time I just laughed it off and hoped he had just stumbled upon the word. Nope, ten minutes later he shared his definition and I was back downstairs. I knew him as a regular with a taste for blondes. Why he picked me I'll probably never know.
The bright lights of the locker room reveal the shocking physical truths about dancers. Stretch marks, dark circles, surgery scars, regrettable tattoos, burns, cheese, bruises.....you name it we've got it. Customers only see us in the dimly lit rooms outside. In this case ignorance is bliss. I'm convinced a dark club turns any five into a nine and makes her profitable for the night. It reminded of the time I returned to the club in the late morning for a meeting. They were replacing some of the couches that line the walls. The old ones were in the alley when I arrived. The crushed red velor was torn, soiled, and stained with spilled drinks and god knows what other types of fluids. No one would ever consider sitting on them if they knew.
My day had started hours earlier with some last minute Christmas shopping with my friend Colleen. We'd met at the club and became quick friends. I was attracted to her kind heart and unaffected attitude. She's a red headed stunner with alabaster skin but seldom used her power. Sometimes it seemed she was truly unaware of it. She was most comfortable off duty as a tomboy. Customers loved her and enjoyed seeing two of her three pink parts. I fantasized about being with her but had never told her so. Probably never will. She was outwardly more feminine than I could ever be but I wanted her to be my butch. I arrived at her condo on the west side about noon. She had just finished a phone conversation with her latest boyfriend now turned loser and was upset. Colleen is unable to tell the difference between sex and love so she regularly fell victim to men that could. I tried to explain that she'd never have trouble finding sex but love was a completely different animal. She may never understand.
We made our way to the local mall and joined the masses. She calmed down on the way over and we decided to have a drink and quick lunch at Ricardo's. We sat on the rail in the patio area surrounded by mall traffic. It was great for people watching but we had to swat the flies that gathered. Red heads are like a beacon. I should have known better as this had happened before. They try to make a play despite the fly rings we both were wearing. It used to be funny but lately it was just an annoyance. Even the waitress seemed interested with a little too much small talk that turned personal.
Some of our conversation involved the club and the recent arrests of three dancers for lewd behavior. It seems that the local vice squad had sent undercover cops to harass us again.
"I heard that they took Cheyenne out two nights ago," said Colleen. "Sky said she was crying hysterically and almost had to be carried out of the office."
I could not get a third citation as that would mean a mandatory ninety day suspension not to mention the fine. With a kid and a mortgage it would be a disaster. I'd gotten two warning citations six months ago for no reason but fighting them was nearly impossible. It was their word against mine.
"Just be real careful with contact and play it straight for a while," I said.
Easier said than done it thought. We agreed to have breakfast after our shifts that night.
After finishing my makeup I returned to the bar area and walked up to Santa. He greeted me with a reserved smile. I suggested we move to a booth and he agreed bringing his Evian with him. He wasn't much for small talk and asked for a lap dance. We sat in awkward silence for a minute until a new song started. He didn't get touchy or ask me to sit next to him while we waited. He just sat there with his hands folded in his lap. Everything was just like last night. When the music started I moved in front of him and took off my top. He never stopped looking into my eyes. I moved to straddle him and just then my left heel strap broke. I almost fell into his lap but held myself up. I felt the inside of my right breast brush his fake beard and nose. It felt like stiff cotton candy. He didn't react at all....not even a flinch. I laughed nervously, took off my other shoe and continued. When the song finished he paid me and I left to make repairs.
Back in the locker room I was putting on my back up heels when I saw Samantha approaching out of the corner of my eye. She's the House Mother for the club. A kind of counselor, friend, and know-it-all for the dancers. Got a problem or an issue? Ask Sam. Need your thong repaired or forget a tampon? Sam's the one. I try to steer clear except when I tip her out. She loves drama and is more trouble than she's worth.
"Stacy, Turk wants to see you in his office." She almost said it with glee in her voice.
"What about?" I asked. "Didn't say, just that he wants to see you now."
Emphasis on now. I went to my locker and got out my red jacket. It was as business like as I could look in my school girl outfit.
Turk's office is on the other side of the club by the liquor storage room. The cheap bastard likes to keep an eye on that door. He's a smarmy chubby thirty-something with the beginnings of a comb over. I think of him as George Costanza with an bad attitude. I'd been in there twice before. Once when I was hired and again a week later when he called me in to discuss my "future" at the club. He'd picked up on my vibe that I knew the score and laid off. Girls that don't know any better probably fall for that ruse when Turk makes his play. I'm sure he gets several a month with that tired bullshit.
When I entered the room there were two uniforms standing in front of Turk's desk. Turk looked at me and then the floor. The female told me their names and explained that they were doing a lewdness investigation. Lewdness? I couldn't believe it. I started to panic inside as a suspension would be a disaster. There must be a mistake. I had only given one dance in the main room since I'd arrived. I doubted that the Russian would have reported anything and besides nothing happened up there. That left Santa. Other than my heel strap breaking nothing had happened there either.
"What's the problem?"
"We have a witness that claims lewd contact during a lap dance," she explained.
"But I've only given one dance tonight and that was for the guy in the Santa suit," I protested.
The female cop seemed sympathetic. She looked up from her paperwork and said, "Sorry honey, Santa's vice."
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
October 05, 2010
The Find, Part Two
By Mark Verve © 2010
Finding several million dollars is on the list of good problems to have. Drug money or not I could think of worse problems but it still was a problem. The main challenge is legitimizing some of the cash to make it more manageable in the governments eyes. I knew to avoid pretentious spending of the new found wealth. Years ago Steve Wynn's daughter was kidnapped in Las Vegas and held for ransom. Wynn got the money out of his casino and the exchange was made. One of the kidnappers then bought a European sports car for cash. They were arrested a few days later. I was not going to be making any large purchases. This needed to be handled on a low key basis.
The next day I went to the Walgreens pharmacy and paid full price for Lisa's meds. I had taken several of the hundreds with me. I gave two to the clerk and she looked surprised to see them. I had seen her around town with her girlfriend. Personally I prefer the lesbians that look like super models not Barney Rubble but I digress. She held one up to the light then the other squinting back and forth between the two. She said that she wasn't sure what to look for. Then an expression of an idea crossed her face and she opened the drawer next to the register. She took out the felt tipped security marker and stroked both bills. Satisfied she counted my change and I left. If nothing else I was reminded to check any bills I decide to spend. Don't need the Feds discovering my new stash because of a bad bill.
After thinking about it I decided not to tell Lisa about the money just yet. We weren't hurting financially so there was no immediate need to do so. After our parents' accident she and I inherited the house and a small stake. An annuity now covered most living expenses and a little more. She would benefit from the find after I converted it. That spared her the the worry I was sure she'd have over the situation. Lisa is an attractive woman with bipolar disorder. That combination had created endless relationship drama in her life including two failed marriages. She had been stable for some time now and seemed contented. No sense in disrupting things. She's worked at the local flower shop for several years. Her passion and talent for flower arranging were a welcomed discovery and I'm sure contribute to her health.
It was clear that I couldn't just walk into the bank and make a large cash deposit. Any amount over ten thousand must be reported. Making lots of deposits under ten thousand was also not realistic. It could attract the attention of local authorities and would definitely interest the IRS at tax time. I would deposit an odd two or three hundred every now and then to cover checks but that was it. Likewise putting it into a safe deposit box was not a realistic option. The sheer space the cash took up was too much. There had to be better ways to go about the conversion and I started researching it on the internet.
One answer was to buy gold coins. Larger cities have coin shops that sell all types of precious metals. Many of them will perform cash transactions with no I.D. required. I made a few calls and then made a road trip to Tucson, Phoenix, and Vegas. Over a week I visited six shops and converted cash into a total of six hundred one ounce gold coins. It was nerve racking traveling with that much cash but I was careful and there were no incidents. Coin shop owners are used to dealing in cash and no questions were ever asked. I made two visits to each shop spaced by at least a day. I did that route again several times in the next few weeks. Those purchases would cover about about half of the balance.
One day I decided to call Slick to see if he had any Bubba Kush available. I hadn't had the urge for a while but things were settling down now. The past four months had gone well and the process was almost over. It had been six months since I had talked to him although we were well acquainted in the past. His real name was John Every but since we were kids he was called Slick. I heard through the grapevine that he had come into a new connection and had quality on a regular basis. When I called him he gave me the usual superficial buddy buddy stuff that probably worked on some of his clientele. He said not to come over before two o'clock. Slick lived on the outskirts of town in one of those trailer parks where everyone had something to hide and nobody asked any questions. He'd survived for years supplying this corner of the desert.
The next morning I inventoried the remaining two bags before going to visit Slick. I found that all but nine hundred thousand had been converted. I felt good about the situation and was starting to relax. Half of it was now gold and the rest was in platinum bars and diamonds. All of it was located in safe deposit boxes in five different banks. I put Lisa on the contracts and amended my will. The diamonds had been tricky but I found what proved to be reliable sources in the downtown L.A. jewelry district. Knowing little about stones I had each lot independently appraised by two different vendors prior to purchase. I don't care for the politics of diamonds but the high concentration of value made them appealing. All three commodities could be sold quietly in the future through private parties on an as needed basis.
I had a late lunch and headed out to Slick's place after two. It was a twenty minute drive that I had done many times before. I parked in the empty dirt lot next to Slick's trailer. There was a dog chained to a motorcycle next door and it announced my arrival. It barked until Slick let me in and stopped as soon as the door closed. The room had an odor of bacon mixed with cigarette smoke. After some small talk he pointed me to a chair and asked how much I wanted. He went into the bedroom and I heard the rustling of plastic bags. I was anxious to leave as soon as possible. I noticed that Slick's trailer had not changed during the five years he'd lived there. The same furniture, pictures, and general clutter served as a familiar backdrop. His old style big screen TV was tuned to a baseball game and had that strange faded picture. He returned to the room and we made the transaction. As I was about to stand and leave the dog started barking. I looked out the window and a bolt of adrenaline shot through my spine.
A car had pulled into the lot and parked next to mine. It was a white 1970's Pontiac Trans Am. The driver got out and reached for a duffel bag from behind the front seat. He was Hispanic, mid twenties, and wearing a cowboy hat. Slick told me that it was OK and to be cool. I heard steps on the porch and Slick opened the door. I felt my anxiety level rising but told myself to relax. Could this car be the same one I passed immediately after I'd left the accident? As soon as the guy entered he shot a suspicious look in my direction. He pointed at my car and asked if it was mine saying he'd once owned the same model. He continued to stand even after Slick had pulled out a chair for him. I knew he was there to make a drop. Slick took the cue and they walked into the back room. I felt an overwhelming need to get out of there. I stood and told Slick I was leaving. The dog started barking again this time lunging and straining against the chain. As I was pulling out of the lot I saw the guy leaving the trailer. I headed back towards town but decided to take the longer route by making a right at the first intersection. I looked in my rear view and saw that the guy had joined me. I was almost sure he was not following me.
Click here to read Part 1 of The Find.
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
Finding several million dollars is on the list of good problems to have. Drug money or not I could think of worse problems but it still was a problem. The main challenge is legitimizing some of the cash to make it more manageable in the governments eyes. I knew to avoid pretentious spending of the new found wealth. Years ago Steve Wynn's daughter was kidnapped in Las Vegas and held for ransom. Wynn got the money out of his casino and the exchange was made. One of the kidnappers then bought a European sports car for cash. They were arrested a few days later. I was not going to be making any large purchases. This needed to be handled on a low key basis.
The next day I went to the Walgreens pharmacy and paid full price for Lisa's meds. I had taken several of the hundreds with me. I gave two to the clerk and she looked surprised to see them. I had seen her around town with her girlfriend. Personally I prefer the lesbians that look like super models not Barney Rubble but I digress. She held one up to the light then the other squinting back and forth between the two. She said that she wasn't sure what to look for. Then an expression of an idea crossed her face and she opened the drawer next to the register. She took out the felt tipped security marker and stroked both bills. Satisfied she counted my change and I left. If nothing else I was reminded to check any bills I decide to spend. Don't need the Feds discovering my new stash because of a bad bill.
After thinking about it I decided not to tell Lisa about the money just yet. We weren't hurting financially so there was no immediate need to do so. After our parents' accident she and I inherited the house and a small stake. An annuity now covered most living expenses and a little more. She would benefit from the find after I converted it. That spared her the the worry I was sure she'd have over the situation. Lisa is an attractive woman with bipolar disorder. That combination had created endless relationship drama in her life including two failed marriages. She had been stable for some time now and seemed contented. No sense in disrupting things. She's worked at the local flower shop for several years. Her passion and talent for flower arranging were a welcomed discovery and I'm sure contribute to her health.
It was clear that I couldn't just walk into the bank and make a large cash deposit. Any amount over ten thousand must be reported. Making lots of deposits under ten thousand was also not realistic. It could attract the attention of local authorities and would definitely interest the IRS at tax time. I would deposit an odd two or three hundred every now and then to cover checks but that was it. Likewise putting it into a safe deposit box was not a realistic option. The sheer space the cash took up was too much. There had to be better ways to go about the conversion and I started researching it on the internet.
One answer was to buy gold coins. Larger cities have coin shops that sell all types of precious metals. Many of them will perform cash transactions with no I.D. required. I made a few calls and then made a road trip to Tucson, Phoenix, and Vegas. Over a week I visited six shops and converted cash into a total of six hundred one ounce gold coins. It was nerve racking traveling with that much cash but I was careful and there were no incidents. Coin shop owners are used to dealing in cash and no questions were ever asked. I made two visits to each shop spaced by at least a day. I did that route again several times in the next few weeks. Those purchases would cover about about half of the balance.
One day I decided to call Slick to see if he had any Bubba Kush available. I hadn't had the urge for a while but things were settling down now. The past four months had gone well and the process was almost over. It had been six months since I had talked to him although we were well acquainted in the past. His real name was John Every but since we were kids he was called Slick. I heard through the grapevine that he had come into a new connection and had quality on a regular basis. When I called him he gave me the usual superficial buddy buddy stuff that probably worked on some of his clientele. He said not to come over before two o'clock. Slick lived on the outskirts of town in one of those trailer parks where everyone had something to hide and nobody asked any questions. He'd survived for years supplying this corner of the desert.
The next morning I inventoried the remaining two bags before going to visit Slick. I found that all but nine hundred thousand had been converted. I felt good about the situation and was starting to relax. Half of it was now gold and the rest was in platinum bars and diamonds. All of it was located in safe deposit boxes in five different banks. I put Lisa on the contracts and amended my will. The diamonds had been tricky but I found what proved to be reliable sources in the downtown L.A. jewelry district. Knowing little about stones I had each lot independently appraised by two different vendors prior to purchase. I don't care for the politics of diamonds but the high concentration of value made them appealing. All three commodities could be sold quietly in the future through private parties on an as needed basis.
I had a late lunch and headed out to Slick's place after two. It was a twenty minute drive that I had done many times before. I parked in the empty dirt lot next to Slick's trailer. There was a dog chained to a motorcycle next door and it announced my arrival. It barked until Slick let me in and stopped as soon as the door closed. The room had an odor of bacon mixed with cigarette smoke. After some small talk he pointed me to a chair and asked how much I wanted. He went into the bedroom and I heard the rustling of plastic bags. I was anxious to leave as soon as possible. I noticed that Slick's trailer had not changed during the five years he'd lived there. The same furniture, pictures, and general clutter served as a familiar backdrop. His old style big screen TV was tuned to a baseball game and had that strange faded picture. He returned to the room and we made the transaction. As I was about to stand and leave the dog started barking. I looked out the window and a bolt of adrenaline shot through my spine.
A car had pulled into the lot and parked next to mine. It was a white 1970's Pontiac Trans Am. The driver got out and reached for a duffel bag from behind the front seat. He was Hispanic, mid twenties, and wearing a cowboy hat. Slick told me that it was OK and to be cool. I heard steps on the porch and Slick opened the door. I felt my anxiety level rising but told myself to relax. Could this car be the same one I passed immediately after I'd left the accident? As soon as the guy entered he shot a suspicious look in my direction. He pointed at my car and asked if it was mine saying he'd once owned the same model. He continued to stand even after Slick had pulled out a chair for him. I knew he was there to make a drop. Slick took the cue and they walked into the back room. I felt an overwhelming need to get out of there. I stood and told Slick I was leaving. The dog started barking again this time lunging and straining against the chain. As I was pulling out of the lot I saw the guy leaving the trailer. I headed back towards town but decided to take the longer route by making a right at the first intersection. I looked in my rear view and saw that the guy had joined me. I was almost sure he was not following me.
Click here to read Part 1 of The Find.
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
September 04, 2010
The Find, Part One
By Mark Verve © 2010
The moonless night had created an all consuming darkness. The only light for miles around came from my headlights. I was speeding down Highway 82 trying to make the border before sunrise. I knew from experience that shortly afterward it could take more than an hour to get across. I was making my monthly trip to Mexico to get my sister Lisa's meds at a discount pharmacy in Nogales. It's a pleasant trip in the relative cool of the night and I had done it every month for the past two years.
In the daylight this area was a desolate uninhabited desert. Tonight it was so dark that my entire world existed in the fifty yards in front of the car. As I rounded a corner my headlights suddenly illuminated a cloud of dust leading into the dark. I slowed and squinted to get a better view. As I got closer I saw a sedan perhaps fifty feet off the road in a ditch. It appeared to have missed the turn, rolled, and stopped propped up on its side against a boulder. I pulled over and stopped with my headlights pointed at the wreck. I turned on the brights. People fell asleep at the wheel all the time out here. I had a sense of foreboding.
I'm not much of a hero but I knew I had to see if anyone needed help. As I approached I could see that the car was resting on the drivers side. It was an erie scene with long shadows thrown by the lights. Oddly the radio was blasting mariachi music through some tinny sounding speakers. Cautiously I approached and saw that the trunk had popped open and I smelled gas. Moving forward I was alarmed to see an arm sticking out from underneath the wreckage. I looked through the windshield and saw a man twisted and pinned in a grotesque pose half in and half out of the drivers side door. He was face down in the sand and lay motionless not making a sound. I checked his neck for a pulse and found none.
I looked around the area to see if anyone else had been ejected. Apparently he had been alone. I took out my cell to see if there was coverage intending to dial 911. Just then I noticed a carry on size bag laying about fifteen feet from the car. Half of it was illuminated by my headlights. It had been torn open in one corner and was covered in sand and dust. I walked over to it as I waited for my phone to power up. Reaching down I saw what appeared to be neat bundles of money spilling from the hole. I opened the zippered compartment and found that it was filled with those neat bundles. I shut off the phone.
The first thing I thought was drug money. Thinking about it later, it was the only logical conclusion. You read stories all the time about the money that flows back into Mexico. They say it's easily hundreds of millions per month. For a split second I hesitated. Then I gathered up the loose bundles and stuffed them back into the hole. I picked up the bag by its side handle and turned towards my car. It was blinding looking into the glare as I hurried back to the car. I had done the guy a favor by looking to help. Now he was doing me a favor. As I passed by the wreck I noticed four pieces of luggage laying in the ditch near the opened trunk. They looked to be part of a matched set. I quickly moved them into my car two at a time and shut the hatch. Judging by their weight they too were full of paper.
My mind was racing with thoughts of the wreck, the dead man, and the cash. I figured it had been about five minutes since I'd stopped. No other cars had passed but suddenly a sense of urgency swept over me to leave the area. The wreck would be found soon enough and I didn't want to be part of the accident investigation. I quickly made a U turn, stepped on the gas and headed back home. Just then a car rounded the corner. It was a white 1970's Pontiac Trans Am with the hood scoop. I noticed it had the T-tops removed and the occupants were wearing cowboy hats. Here come the next good Samaritans I thought. I wondered if they could have seen me make the U-turn. You can imagine the sense of relief as I got up to speed. It was so real that I physically shuddered for a split second. I rolled up the windows and put on the air adjusting the vents to cool my face. I drove the speed limit for the rest of the way home.
As I drove I tried to make sense what just happened and how to proceed. Everyone has had the fantasy of finding a bag of cash that fell out of a armored truck. This was different though because the cash was not going to be missed by any authorities. I needed time to think it through. As daylight approached I phoned my sister and told her I had car trouble and would be home soon. I couldn't tell her about the find just yet. She was emotionally unstable and would be too overwhelmed by such news. For now I'd spare her this burden. I knew she'd be leaving for work at seven. I killed some time with breakfast at the local diner and headed home. Her car was gone so I pulled into the garage and closed the door.
Relief and excitement descended because now it was just me and the suitcases safely at home. I brought them up to the master and put them in the sitting area. For some reason I looked through the blinds and shut them. After our parents died my sister didn't want to sleep in the room they had occupied so I took it. They had been her rock. I assumed that role when I moved back to Bisbee from Southern California after the tragedy. She rarely entered the room and never ventured in alone. The secret would be safe here. I turned my attention to the bags. The luggage was Skyway brand with the soft sided black nylon design. It consisted of two large suitcase size bags, one medium size, and two carry on pieces. They all had a fine coating of sandy dust ground into the fabric.
I unzipped each bag and found they all were stuffed with the bundles of money. I unloaded them and counted it. There were four hundred and fifty bundles composed of one hundred dollar bills for a total of ten thousand per bundle. I grabbed my calculator and totaled it up to four and a half million. Fingers shaking I punched it in again with the same result. For some reason I stood up with both arms in the air and said Yes! I followed with an abbreviated happy dance and collapsed back into the chair and let out a long sigh. That feeling of elation had caught me by surprise and I wondered if that was what greed feels like. I noticed the cash gave off a strong odor of money that virtually filled the room. I examined several of the bundles closely. They were used bills neatly banded together. Each band had a red stamp of a happy face on it. The owners of that brand would not be happy about this loss.
For a while I just stared at the sight of stacks of money. It must have been a full ten minutes that I just sat there. It was an overwhelming visual and seemed surreal. But yet there it was.....in my bedroom. It was a sight that few people have ever enjoyed and I took it all in. Then I carefully placed the bundles back into the luggage. I rolled them into the walk-in behind a row of shirts. The room still smelled of money. For some reason I peeked through the blinds again. I had broken out into a slight sweat. The past four hours had changed everything. I had to figure out how to deal with it.
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
The moonless night had created an all consuming darkness. The only light for miles around came from my headlights. I was speeding down Highway 82 trying to make the border before sunrise. I knew from experience that shortly afterward it could take more than an hour to get across. I was making my monthly trip to Mexico to get my sister Lisa's meds at a discount pharmacy in Nogales. It's a pleasant trip in the relative cool of the night and I had done it every month for the past two years.
In the daylight this area was a desolate uninhabited desert. Tonight it was so dark that my entire world existed in the fifty yards in front of the car. As I rounded a corner my headlights suddenly illuminated a cloud of dust leading into the dark. I slowed and squinted to get a better view. As I got closer I saw a sedan perhaps fifty feet off the road in a ditch. It appeared to have missed the turn, rolled, and stopped propped up on its side against a boulder. I pulled over and stopped with my headlights pointed at the wreck. I turned on the brights. People fell asleep at the wheel all the time out here. I had a sense of foreboding.
I'm not much of a hero but I knew I had to see if anyone needed help. As I approached I could see that the car was resting on the drivers side. It was an erie scene with long shadows thrown by the lights. Oddly the radio was blasting mariachi music through some tinny sounding speakers. Cautiously I approached and saw that the trunk had popped open and I smelled gas. Moving forward I was alarmed to see an arm sticking out from underneath the wreckage. I looked through the windshield and saw a man twisted and pinned in a grotesque pose half in and half out of the drivers side door. He was face down in the sand and lay motionless not making a sound. I checked his neck for a pulse and found none.
I looked around the area to see if anyone else had been ejected. Apparently he had been alone. I took out my cell to see if there was coverage intending to dial 911. Just then I noticed a carry on size bag laying about fifteen feet from the car. Half of it was illuminated by my headlights. It had been torn open in one corner and was covered in sand and dust. I walked over to it as I waited for my phone to power up. Reaching down I saw what appeared to be neat bundles of money spilling from the hole. I opened the zippered compartment and found that it was filled with those neat bundles. I shut off the phone.
The first thing I thought was drug money. Thinking about it later, it was the only logical conclusion. You read stories all the time about the money that flows back into Mexico. They say it's easily hundreds of millions per month. For a split second I hesitated. Then I gathered up the loose bundles and stuffed them back into the hole. I picked up the bag by its side handle and turned towards my car. It was blinding looking into the glare as I hurried back to the car. I had done the guy a favor by looking to help. Now he was doing me a favor. As I passed by the wreck I noticed four pieces of luggage laying in the ditch near the opened trunk. They looked to be part of a matched set. I quickly moved them into my car two at a time and shut the hatch. Judging by their weight they too were full of paper.
My mind was racing with thoughts of the wreck, the dead man, and the cash. I figured it had been about five minutes since I'd stopped. No other cars had passed but suddenly a sense of urgency swept over me to leave the area. The wreck would be found soon enough and I didn't want to be part of the accident investigation. I quickly made a U turn, stepped on the gas and headed back home. Just then a car rounded the corner. It was a white 1970's Pontiac Trans Am with the hood scoop. I noticed it had the T-tops removed and the occupants were wearing cowboy hats. Here come the next good Samaritans I thought. I wondered if they could have seen me make the U-turn. You can imagine the sense of relief as I got up to speed. It was so real that I physically shuddered for a split second. I rolled up the windows and put on the air adjusting the vents to cool my face. I drove the speed limit for the rest of the way home.
As I drove I tried to make sense what just happened and how to proceed. Everyone has had the fantasy of finding a bag of cash that fell out of a armored truck. This was different though because the cash was not going to be missed by any authorities. I needed time to think it through. As daylight approached I phoned my sister and told her I had car trouble and would be home soon. I couldn't tell her about the find just yet. She was emotionally unstable and would be too overwhelmed by such news. For now I'd spare her this burden. I knew she'd be leaving for work at seven. I killed some time with breakfast at the local diner and headed home. Her car was gone so I pulled into the garage and closed the door.
Relief and excitement descended because now it was just me and the suitcases safely at home. I brought them up to the master and put them in the sitting area. For some reason I looked through the blinds and shut them. After our parents died my sister didn't want to sleep in the room they had occupied so I took it. They had been her rock. I assumed that role when I moved back to Bisbee from Southern California after the tragedy. She rarely entered the room and never ventured in alone. The secret would be safe here. I turned my attention to the bags. The luggage was Skyway brand with the soft sided black nylon design. It consisted of two large suitcase size bags, one medium size, and two carry on pieces. They all had a fine coating of sandy dust ground into the fabric.
I unzipped each bag and found they all were stuffed with the bundles of money. I unloaded them and counted it. There were four hundred and fifty bundles composed of one hundred dollar bills for a total of ten thousand per bundle. I grabbed my calculator and totaled it up to four and a half million. Fingers shaking I punched it in again with the same result. For some reason I stood up with both arms in the air and said Yes! I followed with an abbreviated happy dance and collapsed back into the chair and let out a long sigh. That feeling of elation had caught me by surprise and I wondered if that was what greed feels like. I noticed the cash gave off a strong odor of money that virtually filled the room. I examined several of the bundles closely. They were used bills neatly banded together. Each band had a red stamp of a happy face on it. The owners of that brand would not be happy about this loss.
For a while I just stared at the sight of stacks of money. It must have been a full ten minutes that I just sat there. It was an overwhelming visual and seemed surreal. But yet there it was.....in my bedroom. It was a sight that few people have ever enjoyed and I took it all in. Then I carefully placed the bundles back into the luggage. I rolled them into the walk-in behind a row of shirts. The room still smelled of money. For some reason I peeked through the blinds again. I had broken out into a slight sweat. The past four hours had changed everything. I had to figure out how to deal with it.
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
August 05, 2010
A Trolls Life
By Mark Verve © 2010
I don't think the single life is bad in fact I rather enjoy it. I consider it an adventure. Dating can be a pain but just imagine how many married people would love the chance to date again. For that matter, imagine how many are dating again. I'm just an average guy with nothing special going for me. I'm just a bit more practiced at the craft. Over time we all develop our favorite ways to get a date. Let me share one of mine and some fruits.
Troll your favorite night spot thirty minutes before closing. Look for the hottest girl in the place that's crying. Approach and ask if there's anything you can do to help. Use sympathy and understanding. You're going to have to do some listening. Take solace in the fact that there's a thirty minute time limit in effect. If all goes well you'll leave together. It's that simple.
This was exactly the scenario that went down for me last Friday night. Long story short we ended up at her place and I listened to her drone on for another 45 minutes. My neck was cramping up from all the nodding I was doing. She had gotten stood up for what she said was the third time and swore off relationships. I waited patiently and made my move. We ended up in her bedroom and she excused herself to the bathroom.
I knew she'd be at least a few minutes when I heard her brushing her teeth. I took the opportunity to open the drawer in her nightstand. As soon as I saw it I knew she was going be disappointed with me. I mean, do they all run on four D size batteries? It looked like a billy club. Whatever. She came out and we did the deed.
She didn't express disappointment in me. Must have been the superior technique. I finished doggie and she passed out ten minutes later. I had quickly offered her a back rub. She was already face down and I wasn't in the mood to talk anymore. It was the least I could do.....literally. I dressed and left her a note. For some reason we kept in touch.
After a few more times I got tired of it. Frankly all she did was lay there. I'm not complaining.....just saying. Besides, she had severe abandonment issues. Her parents had gotten divorced when she was in grade school. Fifteen years later her ex took their two kids when they were infants. Obviously this was not going anywhere and true to form she dumped me. Considering how easy she was I was glad it didn't end with a dose of antibiotics.
Two weeks before I'd had another interesting encounter. She had me as soon as she said “I'm a yoga instructor.” We went back to my place. I almost cock blocked myself by reading her some poetry. Turns out I completely misread her. She didn't need to be that impressed. I should have known by the fact that she never stopped squirming. She was prepped from the get go. She almost broke my nose drunkenly jumping into my lap. I sneezed a couple of times and shook it off.
Oddly, she made a Zellwegger face at climax. I started calling her Rene but never told her why. As long as our conversations stayed strictly sexual we got along. She looked like Ann Coulter... tall, thin and blonde and with somewhat of a horse face. I liked the fact that she was taller than me. Her second marriage had just ended and had three children. After a while her matronly perfume got to me. A complete turn off. I didn't want her anymore. She whined about it for a while. Now we occasionally drink at our own apartments and Skype. Hopefully she gets the message soon.
I took a chance and went out with her and her group of friends. We did a standard club outing. I managed to duck a gal I'd met there last year. I don't remember her specifics but I'm sure it didn't end well. I was faded and spinning by the time we decided to have breakfast at a local Denny's. The only thing I remember was the manager telling us “this is a family restaurant” shortly after we sat down. I spent the meal trying to maintain and probably didn't say three coherent sentences.
At the risk of boring you I have one last story to tell. I knew she was desperate when she starting showing me naked pictures of herself on her cell. I'd only met her thirty minutes before and bam. She was very comfortable with her spectacular body. It was blinding and all I could think was Jackpot! On top of that she had a sense of humor. She thought it was hilarious that the instructions to her Oxy script said to discard any unused pills. Who ever writes that shit should call SNL.
One morning she was so out of it that she spritzed herself down with hairspray thinking it was sunblock. That only endeared her to me. Everything was going fine until we bumped into her father and step mother at the mall. Turns out she was the female look alike version of her father. I saw it immediately. The quintessential butter face. I couldn't get it out of my mind and it lessened her appeal to me. Call me superficial.
I didn't mind her obsession with DWTS. The first few episodes we watched had three of my “Most Spanked To Top 10” as contestants..... Pam Anderson, Erin Andrews, and Brooke Burk. I kept that little fact to myself. I've now reached a stage in that relationship where I'm in love with her when drunk but still afraid of commitment sober. I've seen that concert before and know how the show ends.
That's it for now. Don't think that I'm a misogynist. I love women and treat my mother and sisters well. Let's just say I'm not good at monogamy. Now get out there and work your dating magic. When you're trolling a club don't forget the golden rule. Never interrupt a couple when the woman is crying. Chances are it's me and you're five minutes too late.
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
I don't think the single life is bad in fact I rather enjoy it. I consider it an adventure. Dating can be a pain but just imagine how many married people would love the chance to date again. For that matter, imagine how many are dating again. I'm just an average guy with nothing special going for me. I'm just a bit more practiced at the craft. Over time we all develop our favorite ways to get a date. Let me share one of mine and some fruits.
Troll your favorite night spot thirty minutes before closing. Look for the hottest girl in the place that's crying. Approach and ask if there's anything you can do to help. Use sympathy and understanding. You're going to have to do some listening. Take solace in the fact that there's a thirty minute time limit in effect. If all goes well you'll leave together. It's that simple.
This was exactly the scenario that went down for me last Friday night. Long story short we ended up at her place and I listened to her drone on for another 45 minutes. My neck was cramping up from all the nodding I was doing. She had gotten stood up for what she said was the third time and swore off relationships. I waited patiently and made my move. We ended up in her bedroom and she excused herself to the bathroom.
I knew she'd be at least a few minutes when I heard her brushing her teeth. I took the opportunity to open the drawer in her nightstand. As soon as I saw it I knew she was going be disappointed with me. I mean, do they all run on four D size batteries? It looked like a billy club. Whatever. She came out and we did the deed.
She didn't express disappointment in me. Must have been the superior technique. I finished doggie and she passed out ten minutes later. I had quickly offered her a back rub. She was already face down and I wasn't in the mood to talk anymore. It was the least I could do.....literally. I dressed and left her a note. For some reason we kept in touch.
After a few more times I got tired of it. Frankly all she did was lay there. I'm not complaining.....just saying. Besides, she had severe abandonment issues. Her parents had gotten divorced when she was in grade school. Fifteen years later her ex took their two kids when they were infants. Obviously this was not going anywhere and true to form she dumped me. Considering how easy she was I was glad it didn't end with a dose of antibiotics.
Two weeks before I'd had another interesting encounter. She had me as soon as she said “I'm a yoga instructor.” We went back to my place. I almost cock blocked myself by reading her some poetry. Turns out I completely misread her. She didn't need to be that impressed. I should have known by the fact that she never stopped squirming. She was prepped from the get go. She almost broke my nose drunkenly jumping into my lap. I sneezed a couple of times and shook it off.
Oddly, she made a Zellwegger face at climax. I started calling her Rene but never told her why. As long as our conversations stayed strictly sexual we got along. She looked like Ann Coulter... tall, thin and blonde and with somewhat of a horse face. I liked the fact that she was taller than me. Her second marriage had just ended and had three children. After a while her matronly perfume got to me. A complete turn off. I didn't want her anymore. She whined about it for a while. Now we occasionally drink at our own apartments and Skype. Hopefully she gets the message soon.
I took a chance and went out with her and her group of friends. We did a standard club outing. I managed to duck a gal I'd met there last year. I don't remember her specifics but I'm sure it didn't end well. I was faded and spinning by the time we decided to have breakfast at a local Denny's. The only thing I remember was the manager telling us “this is a family restaurant” shortly after we sat down. I spent the meal trying to maintain and probably didn't say three coherent sentences.
At the risk of boring you I have one last story to tell. I knew she was desperate when she starting showing me naked pictures of herself on her cell. I'd only met her thirty minutes before and bam. She was very comfortable with her spectacular body. It was blinding and all I could think was Jackpot! On top of that she had a sense of humor. She thought it was hilarious that the instructions to her Oxy script said to discard any unused pills. Who ever writes that shit should call SNL.
One morning she was so out of it that she spritzed herself down with hairspray thinking it was sunblock. That only endeared her to me. Everything was going fine until we bumped into her father and step mother at the mall. Turns out she was the female look alike version of her father. I saw it immediately. The quintessential butter face. I couldn't get it out of my mind and it lessened her appeal to me. Call me superficial.
I didn't mind her obsession with DWTS. The first few episodes we watched had three of my “Most Spanked To Top 10” as contestants..... Pam Anderson, Erin Andrews, and Brooke Burk. I kept that little fact to myself. I've now reached a stage in that relationship where I'm in love with her when drunk but still afraid of commitment sober. I've seen that concert before and know how the show ends.
That's it for now. Don't think that I'm a misogynist. I love women and treat my mother and sisters well. Let's just say I'm not good at monogamy. Now get out there and work your dating magic. When you're trolling a club don't forget the golden rule. Never interrupt a couple when the woman is crying. Chances are it's me and you're five minutes too late.
Mark Verve lives in Las Vegas, Nevada and writes for relaxation. He trades the stock markets for a living and plays poker for aggravation.
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