Monday, April 17, 2006

Dairy Products for Dummies

It amazes me how many people are unfamiliar with the term "butterface".

It refers, simply, to a girl who is sexy but ugly: everything is hot but-her-face.

There were plenty of nights I ended up jerking off because the girl who was talking to me at the party wasn't pretty enough. From time to time, especially when I was younger, I overlooked stringy hair or clownlike makeup and nailed the girl anyway, but I wasn't proud of it. As far as I was concerned, any guy who enjoyed such things, who targeted butterfaces intentionally, was a loser.

April 3, 2006, 9:03am

Marriott Hotel, conference room 1
Semi-annual leadership conference

I notice Gretchen immediately. Her eyes are too narrow, and her bangs obscure them anyway. Her mouth is crooked, and her bright pink lipstick accentuates the flaw; her glimmering cocktail party earrings are completely wrong for a business meeting.

Facewise, she has little to work with, and her style choices have made matters worse.

Then she stands up.

She has a wiry waist, like the thorax of an ant, giving way to a bouncy ass, and her breasts pop voluptuously from under her mohair sweater. Her body has somehow remained pristine, immune to her ugliness.

As I steal delicious five-second glances at her, I suddenly get it.

I have always wanted to be seen with attractive women; I felt I belonged with them. But as my taste for toys and status has mellowed, I see the appeal of the Gretchens of the world.

A relationship with a Gretchen would be an overdose of lust, a steady stream of hot nakedness. I wouldn't want to be seen publicly with her. I wouldn't want to feed her, keep her warm, or satisfy any other biological need; she would exist only to satisfy mine. I would fuck her mercilessly and I would want her to like it, but only because it would pride me to know that I had the power to make her scream. Her personal happiness would mean nothing; she would be a vehicle for my entertainment, a geisha or a concubine, living to please me.


I need to see if I could actually make this happen. Would I be able to seduce her? Would I overcome the desire to avert my eyes from her less-than-magazine-ad-ready mug?

I'm not going to bag her. But I'll go through the motions, and stop just short of the actual act, becuase I need to know I haven't lost it.

"Hey, Gretchen, how's it going?"

"Oh, hi... Steve," she says, reading my name tag.

Some chicks look better far away than close up, like a painting by Monet. Gretchen is the opposite. She impresses me, attracts me, even, with how she carries herself, her back straight, her chin held high.

Her confidence sells me. Yeah, if I were single, I'd fuck her.

"Did you end up getting the lobster bisque last night?"

And speaking of white creamy stuff...

"Oh, yeah, it was heavenly," she moans, with a skyward eye tilt. And then I listen to her speak, examining every word, waiting for an opening to extend the conversation, reading her eyes, gauging how aggressive I can be, how hard I can push, just like I used to do.

I joke about the tie the presenter was wearing and she smiles politely, her mouth bent like a flexed crossbow. Her mouth is her worst feature; at least when she sweeps her hair from her eyes, their deep blueness catches my attention.

She tells me that she is an agent in commercial lines. "How did you get invited here? You must have impressed someone," I say.

"Or pissed someone off," she retorts, grinning.

The conversation continues and I am drawn to her ever more desperately; I have gone from "I wouldn't mind fucking her" to "I want to lay her out on the nearest cocktail table right now". But where do I stop? How do I stop? Do I wait for her to hit the ladies room and just take off? Tell her about my girlfriend? Get her naked, mount her, then stop with my dick two centimeters away from her steaming gash and say, "Oh shit! I'm missing Prison Break!"?

"I'm going for a smoke," she says, holding up a pack of Marlboro Menthols.

I don't smoke, but it doesn't nauseate me, either. If I'm loaded, and someone offers me a butt, I'll take it. Especially if that someone is as fuckable as this hottie, if for no other reason than that I can watch her succulent rump as I follow her outside.

She turns to leave, and two guys trail her closely.

Fuck this. I don't care how hot she is. I don't chase anyone, especially someone I've already decided I'm not going to have sex with. I was looking for an easy out: maybe this is it.

"Steve? Steve!"

I turn to see Lisa, from our training department. She's attractive and all, but every time she's nearby, I have the urge to strangle the perkiness right out of her. I swear, they get these training chicks straight out of cheerleader camp.

"Hi, Lisa."

The hiball glass wobbles unsteadily in her hand, and her voice is too loud for the conversation. But I let her talk, smiling slyly at her bad jokes, nodding patiently as she draws one asinine conclusion after another.

This is how I used to do it, and the technique comes back to me easily, though I've been out of practice for months. I go after one, and if she doesn't work out, I find another. We've all gone to the store looking for a certain sweater, found that they didn't have it in stock, and left with something we liked just as much. Too many guys go after one girl, and when they strike out, they go home feeling sorry for themselves. Why? Not that I give a shit, of course, because losers like them make it easier for me.

She's not dumb, Lisa, just naive. She doesn't know enough to flirt subtlely, so she keeps joking about taking me up to her room and letting me eat oysters out of her navel. She's trying to be cute, and coquettish, but instead she's coming off as a huge slut.

This is what they call low-hanging fruit, easy money, taking candy from a baby. I've fucked a million Lisas in my life, conned each one of them into thinking that there was some kind of connection between us, that her moronic story about surfing in Australia interested me. I played them, all of them, got them to suck my cock, to tell me that they wanted my big fat dick inside of them, and I unceremoniously blasted their faces with white stuff, right between their saucered eyes. Welcome to the major leagues, honey, I'd think, and stifle a laugh.

Suddenly I hate Lisa. I detest her lack of common sense and self-respect. Is she an idiot? I can't be the only guy she's hit on this way. Surely a parade of men has marched in and out of her bedroom, each one of them sticking it to her good and then avoiding her like an IRS auditor. How many times is she going to get used before she wakes up? And am I the only one who finds it funny that this trainer, who gets paid to teach other employees, is apparently unable to learn herself?

"Good night, Lisa," I say, though she is in mid-sentence, and I head upstairs to call Tim.