Laws of Attraction: The Playgirl

FACEBOOK NOTE

Monday, September 7 2015

5.13 AM Pacific Time

Attraction has got laws too—like a 'bitch' dog wants certain principles followed before she goes on hit and starts having intercourse anyhow. From my perspective, these are the major Laws of Attraction I picked up from experimenting with both love and sex.

1. Never ask a man for sex. Yes, you got me right. Men don't like it when women ask them for sex. They will pretend they have not heard what you said correctly, or switch the topic immediately, or tell you they aren't in the mood for that type of thing.

This is so unfair! When he wants to sneak his hand into your pants, he will expect you to furnish him with what he craves for at that particular moment. He will be like, "Baby, I really miss the last time we made love. You were incredibly great, you know? If you don't mind, honey, we can give it a second shot."

When you say, "Pie, I don't think tonight is the perfect time for that," he will growl at how so bad you are treating him, that he gives you everything you want, and yet you are conning him of his entitlement. Just imagine? In general, most guys get so annoyed, to the point where you even get tempted to believe that he will kill you for mouthing an unalterable, "No."

Tell him you want to make love, and he will ignore you like he has not heard what you said. "Baby, this is not the appropriate moment for that; I mean I am so tired that I need to rest without any slight disturbance." Is this a fair rule, ladies? He asks for sex and he gets it, but you are forbidden to ask for anything sexual, granted that he will not give it to you if you dare follow your guts?

2. Follow Whatever Stuff Your Man Brings Up—anything, so long it is him who has proposed it. Honestly, even we ladies wish our men did certain sexy stuff for us. Sadly, few women out there have the guts to tell their men what they exactly want.

Sex and love must never lead to slavery! Both man and woman should be free, communicating liberally without fear of how either party is going to react. If you want him to be doing A, B, C, D—tell him. It will increase your sex drive each time you see him doing that thing and make you orgasm twice faster and longer. That way, you both get to enjoy love and sex to the full.

You're not a robot, one that always has to be looked after and governed. Have creative fun and don't let anything curb you from living your fantasies.

If his ideas are not thrilling enough every time you have sex, why not bring into life your own methods and grind your teeth till you have made the best fruit of them? If you have anything breathtaking, don't be afraid to tear away its wrappings. Don't be, baby. The sky is limitless; they all the time say. Why then must he dictate limits on you?

****

I'm in trouble, uncertainty, and remorse at the same time. I fell in love with the wrong guy. What do I symbolize by describing him as 'the wrong guy'? I am going to make that clear—plain simple as natural, fresh water without filth or mud when it is running in a long, raw stream. I wish all of this didn't come about in the first place. If permitted solely one wish by God, I would turn down riches undreamed of; just to begin a neat and orderly page in my life.

Three days into college, I crashed into this handsome young man. He looked brave and shrewd; he was in flawless shape. From his uncluttered brown hair, down to his active feet, he was a marvel to stare at. Wherever he passed, girls would wheel their heads around to gaze at him, awed and filled with unutterable delight.

I didn't know he was watching me that particular night. I was taking my ease quietly on the library chair, when I rapidly checked around on random impulse, and noticed the fine-looking guy goggling in my direction. He was all smiles in self-assurance. I didn't have the stomach to do what he did. I just smiled back at him, shamefaced, and hurriedly stared away. Frankly, I was embarrassed with everything that had happened.

"Tyrone Emerson is my name. May I be acquainted with yours please?" He petitioned the second time we ran into each other inside the coffee bar overlooking my classroom. I was with my room mate, Julie Evans, or Mrs. De La Vega. She is thinner than me, with long, curly dark red hair.

"I'm Phoebe Jones, a first year undergraduate doing Criminology. What are you pursuing here at Wotton?" I am aware. Most men detest it when a woman asks them what they do for a living, or contemplate to do in the future. I had fine reasons for propounding this to him.

"I'm doing Economics, as in aspiring to become an economist. Like you, this is my first time being here." Julie had this searching look on her face. I'm not saying she had also been struck by the spell of infatuation over this nice-looking guy. We were seated just the two of us when he surfaced out of nowhere and sat down on the stool closest to me.

Tyrone and I became friendly with each other. To my flush of excitement, I realized he lodged in the structure facing mine. Mine was a girls' only hostel. His was a men's exclusively dwelling. Our compartments, or rooms, overlooked each other to make matters breathtaking. This was starting to appall me, truthfully. It was like circumstances were setting us together, like destiny knew that we were meant for each other. Possibly we were—that was the impression I was starting to get.

One premature evening, while I sat down not far away from my glassed wall, doing an Identity Theft assignment on my laptop, the telephone chimed, and I rushed to answer it, thinking it was mom who was calling. "Mom, how nice it is to hear back from you. I have been ringing your line more than the millionth time now. Up till this moment, you were not responding. What did I do to deserve this harsh treatment from you?"

"Phoebe, this is Tyrone. I'm not your mom, which you believe me to be. I have been watching you do your assignment on your apparatus—your Dell, I mean—from my flat here. I just wanted to alert you that you have attempted Questions 2 and 6 the incorrect way. Would you be bothered if I come over and lend you a helping hand?"

Honestly, that left me looted of any word. One: How had Tyrone come to have knowledge of my telephone number? In my eyes, he was a stranger. And I don't give contact details to foreigners I don't know inside out. How did he know it? He could be a spy, or he could be a thief. I have my faith pinned on Julie. She could never betray me on this, not even when presented with a big check interchangeable with piles and mountains of dollars.

Two, how did he know I was working on an assignment? Does he have Superman eyes—eyes that allow him to look fixedly at my window from far there and still be able to keep track of every small act I am undertaking? I could be downloading porn or sex-ting some alien guy I don't personally know on Twitter. I could be playing one of those erotic games where you have to peel off a woman her clothing, bit by bit. How come he is so positive that I am sweating on a goddamn assignment, and not browsing through an infinite list of YouTube videos?

Three, he sounds definitely convinced that my laptop is a Dell brand name. Ever since I arrived at this university, I have never carried it with me anywhere public. It stays inside my room throughout—day in and day out. I swear that Tyrone has never set a foot inside my flat. Is he attempting to show me that he is a magician?

Four, my assignment's problems could be numbered in any peculiar, funny order. Say from capital letters A to F or Roman numerals I to VI. In any sequence and a normal human being is not supposed to know, save for when he is working on a duplicate, or let me say twin, of my god-cursed assignment. In rage, I questioned him, "What does all of this signify? That you are a sorcerer—is that it? Are you making use of magic to snoop on me, Tyrone?"

He laughed helplessly. "I am not a necromancer. I am going to make everything clear once I get there. Am I welcome into your flat, Phoebe?" His tone—it had an otherworldly-like feel to it. I couldn't accurately pinpoint it. It was just there, solid but obvious.

"I receive you with open arms. Come here, please. I shall be marking time, loafing around until you finally show up. You better make it swift, I beg you." This was all I could say, for the moment.

FACEBOOK STATUS

Tuesday, September 8 2015

11.06 AM

One cute guy recently posted this: It only costs $0 to tell your woman that she looks good. Why is it so hard for some men to make their women feel special? He is right; very correct. Let me call him Hardin. His posts get liked by women and girls so often, because he has cute things to say about them. When he got into a relationship with this particular lady, other girls came out clean and admitted that they would sell their souls to the devil just to go out with him. As spooky as that might sound, that's the truth—I mean that's what happened.

I typed this in response to him:

That is a point worth your address, dear.

Since you are already a man, and you know your sex better than us ladies do, I thought you were not only going to pose this question, but also speak your mind on what you think are practicable reasons some men don't do this. It will be an absolute lie to say that all men don't tell their women that they look beautiful. Some men do, nearly on a daily basis, and women with these kind of men must learn to appreciate them, because once they lose them, they might never find their nearly extinct diamond kind.

Here are a few reasons I think (some and not all) men never make it a habit to tell their ladies that they look gorgeous:

1. The dude is terribly ugly and he knows and fears it. In fact, he is so afraid that if he makes his woman aware about how so beautiful she is, she will think twice when a better looking dude approaches her and go as far as abandoning him for the nice-looking guy. To the dude's imagination, it will be like, "I can't tell her that she is beautiful, which is the undeniable truth here. She every time tells me that I am handsome, and yet I feel like it is all a lie. Who knows? She laughs at me with her friends behind my back. I better make her feel uglier too so that she can stick with me and not ditch me for one of those handsome guys who restlessly look for newer ladies to spoil and have fun with. Besides, like goes with like, right? Like attracts like in other words. Ugliness keeps ugliness, and beauty wants fellow beauty. Birds of the same ugly feathers flock together. Roses of identical stunning colors twinkle in harmony."

2. No one tells the dude that he is handsome, and thus, he doesn't want to make life easy for his girl, whom he fears might start to take advantage of this fact. Indisputably, ladies get more compliments than guys do. "Hey there, that dress looks divine on you. Where did you buy it? I would like to try your fancy hairstyle also. Who styled it for you—where and when and how and what is its common name?"

"Sis, you have the most beautiful eyes ever. They sparkle like emeralds flashing in the sunlight. You are simply beautiful."

"Girlfriend, borrow me a slice of your hips. You must lend me that sexy body of yours. I want shapely legs like those, without any hair. I want my breasts to look like yours whenever I put on any variety of bras. Your body looks flawless in nearly every kind of clothing."

I am not so sure, but the majority of men rarely get compliments about how great they look. Lots of women get complimented and admired by both fellow women, and men. This might resolve the mystery. I'm only thinking.

****

I was in doubt; the reason? If it was normal to feel this way over a boy; I am not making reference to one of those underage 'small boys' who police the streets out there. I don't date small boys. It is illegal and a punishable taboo in every country present on planet Earth. I want bigger boys, matured men with flavor and intellect, and not their unripe counterparts! I hardly took a nap since my first encounter with Tyrone. For hours unbroken in the comfort of my bed, I sprawled lazily, sucked up into limitless thoughts touching him. What had he done to me? I felt like I had been cast a spell on or something.

To make matters worse—or was it the best idea?—I turned to my mom for dating counsel. She oversees a well-liked dating site on the web, with millions of visitors leafing through each slipping month. This alone was reason enough to clear up my cause of approaching her.

"You are dating, Phoebe?" Amber sounded excited on the phone. In fact, she was itching to know more about this boy I was talking about.

"We are not yet dating, mom. I just wanted to let you know that there is chemistry between the two of us. He is evermore warm and tender with me. I am convinced that I like him. The only trouble is that I am putting in hours and more hours into contemplating about him. Do you think this is normal behavior on my part?"

"You are clearly infatuated with the boy, Phoebe. Are you sure he feels the same way about you? If he does not, I am afraid that things are about to take a bitter turn for you, darling. Never let yourself fall for a man you are not convinced treasures the same emotions for you. You might just end up like on of those heartbroken women I console every day on the web."

Truthfully, that was starting to frighten me. It made me reason twice about where I was headed with all of this. Was I genuinely falling in love, or merely tricking myself? The thought of Tyrone leading me into some nature of a trap made me shudder in horror. Mom had a point, a good one as a matter of fact. I shrugged these thoughts away in any case.

FACEBOOK CHAT

Tuesday, September 8 2015

9.16 PM

Julie and I talk about almost anything; food, fashion, love, religion, life, sex. She is my confidant, someone I can consistently lean on. Yes, I trust her more than I have faith in myself. I feel lucky to have a sweetheart like her. With her, I am evermore free. She is four years older than me, although at times she tends to act weirdo, or let me say babyish.

It was night. I didn't have much to do. I was bored and intentionally lonely. My Blackberry internet was down, so I had to grab my modem and access the internet using my laptop instead. The truth is I like doing stuff on my phone. It is easy, and I get done lots of chores lazy-style. Using my Dell, I have to seat in a precise pose and make sure I heartily concentrate on whatever thing I am doing. Otherwise, to slice a slow, mind-numbing narrative brief: Julie and I texted. It should have been on What's App or some other well-known app. I cannot one hundred per cent remember what it exactly was, unless I mine back into the past and confirm it—which I am not keen on accomplishing, mind you.

In case you don't know, girls have a weakness of discussing forbidden, X-rated stuff. We don't give a damn about doing this. It's merely natural dialogue—our thing, our passion, our secret. What we can't stand is having someone, chiefly a man, eavesdrop on our conversation. That always sucks. Yuck!

PHOEBE

It seems men cannot do without sex, Julie. I am not madly curious into screwing Miguel, as much as he craves fucking the libido out of me. I don't get it. Why is it that men always want sex more than anything else? If they were that less interested in it, I swear—I would be a virgin to this day!

Don't you shake hands with me on this subject? I mean when you compare my case with yours? Doesn't your man bug you to constantly get undressed so you can have intimate fun in his, or your own, bed?

Whenever I am in love, I lose my sanity to the extent where I am willing to engage in just about any kind of sex to please him. That's why I learn more and more regarding it. I every time set my sights on discovering more ways to thrill him, stilling his appetites in so doing.

JULIE

You are right, Phoebe. My hubby loves sex more than he is addicted to his Play Station. Sometimes, I fail to grasp it. I just want to be in a normal and yet sweet relationship with him. I want him to buy me romantic novels and birthday cards and spend lots of time in my company, it be day or night. I want more than just sex.

Yes, like every commonplace woman, I also do feel this strong itch to have it. I know how to control myself brilliantly, regardless. If I want sex badly, I let Denzel know. If he wants it too, he tells me. A relationship without sex is like...tea without sugar. You must put in sugar in order to effect that sweetness.

Don't mistake me for a sex addict, girl. I am no die-hard lover of sexual intercourse. I as well don't understand why men cannot do without it. Tell me: Does he buy you underwear?

ME

I wish he did. To be honest with you, he doesn't. I buy my own panties, Julie. After all, I am big enough to manage that; I am a grown up, am I not?

JULIE

What do you love about having sex with Miguel? I myself: I can't resist caressing Denzel's large hairy chest or sloping myself down on a naked him. His hair all the time tickles my breasts. I mean the sensation that comes from lying on top of him is wonderful, galvanizing what's more. I am insanely addicted to it, I swear.

Denzel is hairy all over, mind you. Even his ass has got hair, girl, can you picture that?

ME

Don't make me burst from laughter. Seriously, lady! Don't you know it is normal for the majority of men out there to have hair all over their bodies, even on their buttocks? Well, yes, even some women are hairy too. It just depends.

Hey girl, I can't resist to stare Miguel in the eyes every time he enters me. I don't know. I always like to see his expressions throughout the act. This alone is enough to make me orgasm.

JULIE

Give me a couple reasons you would sleep with him, without a second thought?

ME

1. He Smells Like Heaven, I give my word. I have sniffed his clothes before: His slack boxers and tight underwear—his everything; that glorious scent of his...I have never encountered anything like it at any point in my life. I would rather sleep with a man who smells nice, than one who stinks like waste.

Thank goodness: Miguel smells fantastic, and you are granted, naturally. No! He does not spray bottles of day-to-day cologne throughout his body. That would instantaneously put me off. He smells himself, simple but artless, sugar-like and honey-like.

Damn! I miss his scent already. I wish he was closer to me, standing within sniffing distance, so I can breathe him in and then contemplate on him. Just by smelling a delicious him, I get hungry. I swear that this is the truth!

2. He is the Only Person Who Treats Me with Nobleness. What am I saying here? With me, he is ever soft and ever gentle, ever caring and ever sympathetic. That's why I am not going to leave him. I did that the last time and things got disastrous. Five minutes into his absence and I felt like I had suddenly run out of oxygen. Why? Because he handles me like no one else is able to, in a uniquely impressive way.

I can still call to mind those vanished paradise-like nights with him; him playing the guitar for me; singing novel, sweet lyrics I had never heard anywhere else; dancing frantically before my eyes in such a manner that I couldn't help but giggle at. He knows perfectly how to make my day.

That is why I treat him like a King. In fact, he is my King. Whatever thing he requests of me, I fulfill it. I love him; I love him; I love him!