Page 8 of 10 FirstFirst ... 678910 LastLast
Results 71 to 80 of 100

Thread: The Mace, Junkie Bells, and other tripe writings by OTP deplorables :D

  1. #71
    VIP Member! StratBastard's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2019
    Location
    Coburg Oregon
    Posts
    15,510

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    20,260
    Thanked 50,127 Times in 14,226 Posts
    I had a dream when I was but nineteen, of a woman almost too beautiful to behold. She seemed sad, almost heartbroken, as she walked down a dark stone staircase towards me. Naked from the waist up, her long slender arms held a ball of incredible light high above her as she walked. I suddenly knew the ball was in danger of being shattered... that she was struggling to continue to hold it aloft. I awoke shaken and anguished, and drew a sketch of her which I keep to this day. And now here today appears seemingly that very same woman, her long slender arms above her head, a sad countenance on her face, her beauty out of place in these otherwise mundane surroundings. I could only sit stunned, a witness to what seemed an impossibility.

    She danced, moving to the slow tempo in a free-form improvisational style of which I had never before seen the like... fluid and flowing, more sensual than sexual, mesmerizing and ethereal. She glided towards me slowly, her feet seeming to hardly touch the floor, an incarnation of Ganga herself dancing to the delight of the Gods... her movements so unique I doubt anyone could replicate them. Her long arms pirouette in a flourish, a move which somehow brings her down to crouch before me suddenly, and she lifts my hat. I find my normally stoic face helplessly at war with a variety of unexpected emotions. We stare at each other transfixed for what seems like an eternity. It is I, with my need to know, who breaks the spell.

    "What is your name?" I ask, as if this would answer everything.

    "Hindi" she replies, finally giving me a smile, which lights my heart like sunrise after a long night without hope.

    She finishes her routine and prepares to exit into the dressing room... but pauses to cast a glance over her shoulder at me. I approach her with nothing to say, and simply ask her for a table dance.

    She directs me to a chair, has me sit. The music has started for the next performer, and she begins to dance gracefully for me. She does not really remove much clothing, nor does the performance resemble in any way the others I have seen in the room... with the other girls showcasing their attributes as much as possible. She presents herself simply, even elegantly; this is me.

    It is over all too soon, and I begin to feel a little foolish... why did I think she saw into me? I thank her, hand her a $50 bill, and turn to walk out the door.

    She calls after me once, "don't you want any change?"

    I keep walking.

    I wake up late again Sunday morning, and head over to see my friend Vic. I met Vic several years ago, during my first night working at the Postal processing facility, and he is unlike anyone I have ever met. His physical presence was a bit overwhelming the first time I saw him, to say the least. Vic could only be described as Herculean. He wore a red U.S. Marine Corps T-shirt stretched over shoulders that were incredibly wide and thick... so heavily muscled, in fact, as to shock my sensibilities somewhat. Not merely big, he was obviously in top shape, sporting a flat and small waistline. Incongruously, a thick pair of spectacles were perched on his face, giving the beast a look of bookish intelligence.

    Working alone with him an entire night, I soon found him to be an extremely exceptional individual... well read, gregarious, open, and self actualizing. My initial reservations quickly vanquished, he drew me into long conversations on any number of interesting subjects, often even offering his observations and struggles with more personal situations. I had never met someone so unafraid to be themself, nor had I ever met anyone as substantial a person. In less than a week, we were becoming fast friends.

    Among his various pursuits, Vic was a power lifter... part of a weight lifting sub-culture which demonstrates raw, brute strength in such lifts as the bench press, the squat, and the deadlift. He would describe these activities with an enthusiasm, it seemingly contained in a wider philosophy of personal growth and spiritual actualization. Enthralled, I would listen to his pontifications about this alien enterprise as a lifelong outsider... my thin 145 pound body having always remained resistent to weight training.

    As is the way with friends, he began to nag me incessently to come to his house and begin working out with him. You can understand my reluctance.

    Vic was in actual competition for the world record in the bench press in his weight class. I later saw him press up 480 pounds in a garage... the world record at the time 510. Mind you, every other competitor in this sport utilizes about a dozen drugs to do this, including steroids. Vic used NONE. Ever. He trained naturally, and was determined to show the world it could be done without drugs. And was among the 4 or 5 strongest guys in his class on the entire planet.

    I resisted for a few months, the thought of humiliating myself in front of this behemoth not very enticing. Vic, however, has this way about him. His philosophy was about competing with himself, not with others. He is a Promethean personality by nature, with a sincere cheerleader's approach, praising and encouraging. He listened intently while I attempted to turn him from recruiting me into this realm, nodding occasionally, his hand on his chin contemplatively. Undeterred, he went on to explain how proper training techniques were not utilized by me previously, and that he was confident that I could make substantial gains. I eventually felt comfortable enough to believe it appropriate to give it a try... and it would offer more time to hang with my new friend.

    My first time at his home was an eye opener indeed; various devices of torture previously unknown to me, designed to physically tax the body to exhaustion, were arrayed in every corner. Another behemoth, Jack, was busying himself with a very large barbell... doing seated, behind-the-neck overhead presses with 225 pounds.

    Oh brother, I thought to myself. I definitely do not belong here.

    I was taken immediately to Vic's personal alter, the crucible by which he measured his own advance: the bench press. As the apparent next sacrifice, I reluctantly laid out on it and prepared for certain humiliation. An Olympic bar sat on the standard, eight feet wide and thick... weights both large and small could be added to each side in the desired increments. I was not too surprised to find the bar itself very heavy to me, as Vic took me through the proper movements. He encouraged me profusely, and was so excited to have me there doing this that I lost my initial embarrassment over my thin and weak body. Joyous and in his element, Vic actually had me enjoying myself also. This was due, in no small part, to the trust I had invested in him so quickly... which was normally very unlike me.

    To say I was sore the next day would be an understatement of incredible proportion... it seemed that The Sandman, rather than sprinkling sleep dust in my eyes the previous night, had decided rather to tuck me in snugly with a baseball bat. My chest, arms, and shoulders were nearly frozen with stiffness, normal movements causing me to wince painfully. At work that night, Vic waved this off, obviously taking it as a matter of course... his devilish eyes twinkling gleefully as his knowing finger occasionally shot out to poke those very spots his own experience revealed were killing me. This, I was later to learn, was all part of the initiation to a very exclusive club. I mistakenly thought it an alpha male club... but later learned I was a sigma now among sigmas.

    And I must admit I did come to love it. Several years later, I was no longer the skinny and physically incapable person I had resigned myself to being. Indeed, like Vic, I too was being whispered about: he must be using steroids. As promised by Vic, I had responded to correct (and world-class expert) training techniques, with success breeding upon success, and increased my determination to change my own world by my own efforts. At 5'10" tall and 198 pounds, I had added over 50 pounds of hard muscle to my lean frame, and was often admired for my physique. My strength had increased exponentially, allowing me to bench press twice my body weight (somewhat of a milestone, according to Vic). The spiritual dividends too were not lost on me, and I grew as a man and a person as a result. I had become more confident in the world... no longer feeling at the mercy of bullies with malevolent whims, and rarely ever challenged by such again. I became even more contemplative and patient, no longer feeling rushed to prove myself in adversarial scenarios. My training not only hardened my body, but also my will... and I was developing an increased ability to persevere, and to percieve more possibilities for myself. The ceilings which once seemed to limit my growth in all arenas were now gone... thanks in no small part to my friendship with Vic.
    A.K.A. StratBastard
    "It can't be fixed."
    NRA Member
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFa4g5nQPss

  2. The Following User Says Thank You to StratBastard For This Useful Post:

    MountainGirl (05-23-2023)

  3. #72
    VIP Member! MountainGirl's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2017
    Location
    Ten Oaks TX
    Posts
    6,224

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    29,324
    Thanked 15,489 Times in 5,157 Posts
    Click image for larger version. 

Name:	Strat.jpg 
Views:	73 
Size:	53.9 KB 
ID:	22906
    Now deferring to the judgement of horses ~ because Truth comes in 30 round bursts.

  4. The Following User Says Thank You to MountainGirl For This Useful Post:

    Michael_Js (05-23-2023)

  5. #73
    VIP Member! StratBastard's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2019
    Location
    Coburg Oregon
    Posts
    15,510

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    20,260
    Thanked 50,127 Times in 14,226 Posts
    (continued)

    Vic answers the door this morning as usual, in his underwear and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He is a terminally single guy, and as such keeps odd hours... staying up around the clock or sleeping as the whim strikes him. I hand him the coffee I brought him, his eager lips seeking the edge of the Styrofoam cup. Working the graveyard shift for years, we have both come to drink coffee by the gallon daily.

    Today is arm day, and we shamble out to the garage to place demands on them with the weights. Vic complains, as he does frequently, about how my biceps have become bigger than his. While this is true, this is also the standard type of backhand comment he often utilizes to offer praise and encouragement on the sly. We both know I could train for a thousand years, and the rest of my body, while certainly more than adequately built, would never catch up to his.

    We utilize this time to discuss our business enterprise. Over the years we had developed an import business selling various knives to collectors through mail order. We would also travel, on occasion, up north to Stumptown... having become one of the regular vendors at the very large gun and knife shows held up there periodically. Passing the barbells back and forth, we talk of the big show coming up in September, and our plans to eventually parlay our endeavors into a small fortune. We were also, at this point, contemplating a buying trip to Europe.

    I casually make mention of the girl I had seen the previous night, not really expanding yet on its impact.

    "I met this really beautiful woman last night" I say, just giving the barest facts. Vic listens with an air of the experienced sojourner. Women are attracted to him, not merely for his physique, but for his friendly and positive demeanor. He is often dating this girl or that, but never really too very long with any particular one. At work, I suspect some might view him as a bit of a tomcat. In truth, he simply has high standards and expectations in a prospective mate.
    "You gonna ask her out?" he asks, right to the point. Vic is a loyal friend, investing faith in the few people he allows close to him. Of course she would go out with me, how could she resist?

    "Yeah, maybe... I don't know". I am barely separated from my wife, I am thinking. "The timing on this seems a little wrong".

    Vic is as neutral as Switzerland. "You gotta decide how YOU feel about it, what's right for yourself" he says without judgement. With Vic, matters of the heart often have two sides (and sometimes THREE, as I later came to learn) and are rarely simple. Of course, the sigma male part of him, as well as the part that is my good friend, would celebrate my getting laid by some young lovely. A man of appropriateness, he simply doesn't express that here.

    "Normally I would think it a bad idea," I say. "But there's something about her..." I end up lamely, unable to really express my feelings without appearing foolish or impulsive. Serendipity. Divine intervention. Something very strange and wonderful, I want to say.

    "Hey, where's the fire?" he asks. "You're going through an awful lot right now, you don't have to rush yourself into any decisions right this second" he says sensibly. That's Vic for you... as if he fully expects such opportunities to just drop in my lap with regular frequency. We wrap up our discussions, finish our workout, and I head home to do some work on my nearly empty house.

    My home is taking on the look of an empty warehouse, the only things remaining of substantial size being my stacks of guitar amplifiers. The living room is empty, save for a small portable television... which seems to mutely broadcast accusations about my current situation. My single bed is still in the "music room", and so all three bedrooms in the main house are likewise without furnishings of any sort. I insisted, for the benefit of the children, that Eliza take almost everything... to lessen the impact somewhat on the separation. All the things they normally see will be in their new home. Things are a bit spartan here, however, and I think I should probably go out and get a few basic things.

    I climb into the Sunbeam and start driving, planning to do just that. I find myself, however, pulling into the parking lot of Hindi's night club instead.
    A.K.A. StratBastard
    "It can't be fixed."
    NRA Member
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFa4g5nQPss

  6. The Following User Says Thank You to StratBastard For This Useful Post:

    MountainGirl (05-24-2023)

  7. #74
    VIP Member! StratBastard's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2019
    Location
    Coburg Oregon
    Posts
    15,510

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    20,260
    Thanked 50,127 Times in 14,226 Posts
    Click image for larger version. 

Name:	Screenshot 2023-05-23 223644.jpg 
Views:	0 
Size:	62.1 KB 
ID:	22938
    A.K.A. StratBastard
    "It can't be fixed."
    NRA Member
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFa4g5nQPss

  8. The Following 2 Users Say Thank You to StratBastard For This Useful Post:

    Michael_Js (05-24-2023),MountainGirl (05-24-2023)

  9. #75
    VIP Member! StratBastard's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2019
    Location
    Coburg Oregon
    Posts
    15,510

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    20,260
    Thanked 50,127 Times in 14,226 Posts
    Click image for larger version. 

Name:	Screenshot 2023-05-23 224910.jpg 
Views:	0 
Size:	93.7 KB 
ID:	22944
    A.K.A. StratBastard
    "It can't be fixed."
    NRA Member
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFa4g5nQPss

  10. The Following 2 Users Say Thank You to StratBastard For This Useful Post:

    Michael_Js (05-24-2023),MountainGirl (05-24-2023)

  11. #76
    VIP Member! MountainGirl's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2017
    Location
    Ten Oaks TX
    Posts
    6,224

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    29,324
    Thanked 15,489 Times in 5,157 Posts
    Quote Originally Posted by StratBastard View Post
    LOL YES !
    Now deferring to the judgement of horses ~ because Truth comes in 30 round bursts.

  12. The Following User Says Thank You to MountainGirl For This Useful Post:

    StratBastard (05-24-2023)

  13. #77
    VIP Member! StratBastard's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2019
    Location
    Coburg Oregon
    Posts
    15,510

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    20,260
    Thanked 50,127 Times in 14,226 Posts
    Click image for larger version. 

Name:	345870865_1202580706953158_1203193381262173132_n.jpg 
Views:	0 
Size:	85.5 KB 
ID:	22964
    A.K.A. StratBastard
    "It can't be fixed."
    NRA Member
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFa4g5nQPss

  14. The Following User Says Thank You to StratBastard For This Useful Post:

    Michael_Js (05-25-2023)

  15. #78
    VIP Member! MountainGirl's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2017
    Location
    Ten Oaks TX
    Posts
    6,224

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    29,324
    Thanked 15,489 Times in 5,157 Posts
    ^^ I told you no pics!!!
    Now deferring to the judgement of horses ~ because Truth comes in 30 round bursts.

  16. The Following User Says Thank You to MountainGirl For This Useful Post:

    StratBastard (05-25-2023)

  17. #79
    VIP Member! StratBastard's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2019
    Location
    Coburg Oregon
    Posts
    15,510

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    20,260
    Thanked 50,127 Times in 14,226 Posts
    (continued)

    Tonight, there is a bouncer, a large younger man taking his job a little too seriously. He cards me, looks at my I.D., and exclaims loudly "1957?!"... as if I were trying to pull one over on him. He has no doubts, I am sure, that I am well over 21. But I had been blessed with genetics which had always made me appear 10 years younger than my actual age. My athletic physique only added to this illusion. He was sure my I.D was false for whatever reason, probably pegging me at 26 like everyone else... instead of my actual 34 years.

    I could see he was sizing me up, trying to decide whether or not to try and throw me out. He was a good 5 inches taller, and outweighed me by at least 40 pounds. But one of the things I discovered in my physical journey with Vic: no big guy wants to get his ass kicked by a guy smaller than him. For some reason, they find it humiliating. Which, I think, is why I never really had to deal with bullies again... even the really big ones. Bullies are cowards: if there's even a small chance of not coming out on top, they bail... especially if you look capable of making a mess of their face and their inflated egos. This young guy had his lower lip sticking out petulantly, and struggled with the decision.

    The bartender diffuses things with a casual wave of her hand. "Hey, he's all right" she declares to the bouncer, beckoning me in. He glowers at me a bit, wanting me to know he hasn't been taken in.

    I discover she is not there, after watching a full rotation of the girls. Another compliment of dancers working the late shift, I am told, is to arrive later at seven o'clock. I leave, intending to return a few hours later.

    I go out shopping, picking up some silverware, crockery, toiletries, and the like. Taking them home, I find they make very little difference to the appearance of my place... it still resembles a small village which has received the news of an approaching plague and emptied. But at least I can eat off of real plates, and wash a few clothes now.

    I have been growing my hair out for the last few months, needing some small change, and it is long enough now to comb straight back and affix into a small ponytail. Looking in the mirror, I have to wonder; did she really find me interesting in some way? With hundreds of younger guys likely vying for her attention each night, it seemed a dubious, wistful hope. I have her pegged somewhere around 23, which would make me 11 years older. Nonetheless, I venture out again to catch the later rotation, hoping somehow to clarify things.

    She is there this time, standing at the end of the bar where a short hall leads to the dressing room. Her back to me, she is engaged in conversation with a small, young petite woman. Waiting for an opportunity to break in, I can't help but overhear their conversation somewhat... something or other about their rent. Roommates, I figure. The smaller one looks over Hindi's shoulder, seeing me waiting, and then gives her a knowing look and nudge. Hmm...I think. Have tongues been wagging here, and if so, about me specifically? Or is it merely because I left a big tip on my previous visit? My hopes go up a notch, as I assume she would garner large tips all the time. Hindi spins around as if on a skateboard.

    "Hey... how are YOU?" she asks brightly. Incongruously, her hand shoots out, firmly shaking my hand in an almost masculine manner.... with a big smile and a single nod. Touching her hand is like gripping a live wire, but I manage to keep my face casual enough.

    "Great, thanks... I just came in for some coffee". The bartender hears this, and starts making some, it not being too popular this late I suppose. "How's your night going?"

    "Kinda slow really", she says with a rueful smile. Indeed, the place looks more than half empty this evening. "We were thinking we just might break even tonight, maybe even afford a cab home tonight if we're lucky".

    "Well, we can't have THAT," I swagger. "How about I get a table dance?"

    "Oh, I owe you one of those anyway", she declares. "The one I gave you the other night was really lame".

    "On the contrary" I say with true honesty. To this she smiles demurely, and her eyes twinkle a bit as she looks at me.

    "Come sit over here" she says, actually taking my hand and leading me to a chair.

    She dances for me again, moving in that hypnotic way she does, and her eyes have taken on that look when we initially saw each other. Not desire, not false charm, but rather a sad and hopeful regard. She may have removed some clothing, but I saw only those green eyes... and an emotion that - dare I think it? - mirrored my own.

    The song ends, and she quickly sweeps up her clothing in a single motion, heading for the dressing room. I am still frantically trying to dig my wallet out. She tosses me a smile over her shoulder, says "I'm up next", and disappears into the door. She left without taking a nickel, and smiling fit to light up a cathedral.

    I sit at her stage attentively, my desire to see her move about liquidly as she does seeming to increase. She spends an inordinate amount of time directly in front of me, nearly ignoring everyone else. She leans forward and asks if I would sit and talk with her after her set, pointing at a couple of chairs behind an old and unused jukebox.

    We sit together for a couple of hours, leaning close to be heard over the music. Later, it would remind me of a quote of Albert Einstein's: "an hour sitting with a pretty girl on a park bench passes like a minute, but a minute sitting on a hot stove passes like an hour. That's relativity".
    Last edited by StratBastard; 05-26-2023 at 05:30 AM.
    A.K.A. StratBastard
    "It can't be fixed."
    NRA Member
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFa4g5nQPss

  18. The Following 2 Users Say Thank You to StratBastard For This Useful Post:

    MountainGirl (05-26-2023),Prepared One (05-26-2023)

  19. #80
    VIP Member! StratBastard's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2019
    Location
    Coburg Oregon
    Posts
    15,510

    Ranks Showcase

    Thanks
    20,260
    Thanked 50,127 Times in 14,226 Posts
    She seems genuinely interested in me, and I am more than just flattered... I am absolutely transfixed. A huge musical fan, she seems pleased to hear I am a musician and composer, and asking if I might bring in some recordings of my work. I go outside to my car briefly and retrieve a cassette of several of my own guitar instrumentals, giving it to her to listen to. She herself, she says, writes constantly and obsessively... poetry, observations, and journals. She pulls a few notes from her small purse: like myself, she always has her current projects with her, to work on them when inspiration strikes, and I find many of her musings to be compelling and thoughtful. One, in particular, was "One step from true flight". I was moved and astounded by this single phrase in her poetry, as I needed as yet to entitle maybe the best piece of music I ever recorded. It was neo classical metal and very Wagneresque, and she had provided, with a scrap of paper from her purse, the perfect and perhaps only way to quantify what I was trying to convey in the piece. I asked her to especially listen to number 3 on the tape, and if she might consider it worthy of her work... enough that we might entwine our ideas and efforts. She smiled, and promised she would.

    "Do you write any lyrics? I ask, hoping to find yet another common interest between us,

    "I've never had the opportunity to put any of this to music, but I would like that very much" she responds.

    "Well" I say, "some of the songs on this tape are completed musically, but they still need lyrics added. Maybe you might listen to them, see what you can do with them?"

    She agrees to do just that, and secrets the tape in her purse. Before I leave, she asks if she can dance for me again, to which my answer is of course YES. She did not collect any money before, and I want an opportunity to tip her again. It was not some silly attempt to buy her affection... I am sure many men do just that and fail. No, it was rather my desire to show her respect and regard... and to not be one of those bums who would eagerly take something for free just because they COULD. And, good lord, I did take up so much of her working time tonight.

    When the dance is over, she says good night and AGAIN attempts to scurry off without collecting, but I am ready for her this time.

    "Hindi, wait!" I say before she can get away, and hand her the bill I have kept folded up in my hand. "I really enjoyed seeing you tonight and talking... I'll come in later this week and see some of your lyrics".

    "Okay", she says, smiling again like a lighthouse. "I'll be working both Wednesday and Thursday night... I'll see you soon!"

    I turn and almost make it to the door when she has caught up to me in a panic. "Please", she implores. "I can't take this". She is holding out the bill I gave her, having, I suppose, discovered it to be $100.

    "Of course you can, I can afford it easily, it's not much to me. I think you might really need it though".

    "I don't want to take your money" she says in earnest.

    "Look," I say simply. "I really loved talking to you tonight. Maybe you'll never have any idea how much. And I really hope we do again. But you're supposed to be working tonight, not hanging out with me and handing out free dances. A girl's gotta eat you know".

    She looks genuinely anguished, and has tears welling in her eyes. Finally, she drops the hand which has been holding this bill out like a subpoena she was trying to serve.

    "I don't know what to do", she says, clearly at odds. "I really, really do need this, and tonight... but it's way too much Phoenix".

    If I tried to pay you what you were really worth, it would require a raid on Fort Knox, I think to myself. My mind goes back to the moment I came in, and she was discussing rent with her roommate. This, I conclude, must be the emergency. Another case eloquently solved, Inspector Michaels.

    Thank you Watson, it was elementary really.

    "I know you need it, don't let it worry you baby doll. I'll see you soon".

    Her beautiful face immediately emptied of any possible guile, posturing, indifference, or defence one might have against the world seeing you openly. She looked at me nakedly, her eyes surprised, tearful, hopeful, and adoring. "You called me baby", she whispered.

    Driving home, I cannot help but feeling jubilant. Who ever heard of a dancer turning down a $100 tip? Obviously behind on her expenses, she also spends an inordinate amount of time merely talking with me all night. I'm not wrong, I say to myself. There is something here. I keep telling myself to not get too invested, but the truth remains: I am being swept away like so many dry leaves in a windstorm.
    A.K.A. StratBastard
    "It can't be fixed."
    NRA Member
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFa4g5nQPss

  20. The Following 3 Users Say Thank You to StratBastard For This Useful Post:

    MountainGirl (05-26-2023),Prepared One (05-26-2023),TJC44 (05-27-2023)

Page 8 of 10 FirstFirst ... 678910 LastLast

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •