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Sour Dick-Sucking Lips
By Roosh V © 2009
http://www.rooshv.com roosh@rooshv.com 
I look up at the metal chandelier in the main room and notice it has twelve tiny bulbs inthe shape of raindrops, set imperceptibly low. It’s so low this place will go out of business beforehaving to replace them. There is more light coming from candles placed on eight tables halfwayencircling a small dance floor, where late 20-somethings move to deep house as if they werehaving a mild seizure. I feel like I’m in a dark cave and rabies infested bats are about to descendfrom the ceiling and inflict pin-sized bite wounds on the crowd. Those who didn’t feel the bitesin the commotion and seek treatment would eventually die after the virus hitches a ride on anerve into the skull to feast on brain matter. I already have the rabies vaccine so I’d yellmaniacally during the bat attack with my arms high in the air so everyone would think I’m theleader of the bats. I’d trip them going down the stairs and laugh at the hilarious heap at the bottom.I return to reality and squint around the room, searching for pussy. It’s impossible tomake a correct decision when the most important feature of a woman, her face, is deliberatelyhidden from view. That must be why this bar is so popular. I remember the last two girls I gotout, their faces a far model from perfection when hit with a halogen bulb, and I relax, ready tothank the owner of this shithole for doing me favor. I’m in a fantasy world, and the joke is oneveryone here that the person they’re talking to doesn’t have a leathery face. I do an imaginarytoast in front of my nose and finish the last of my Johnnie Walker Black, by now watered-downfrom the ice and tasting almost like flat cola.I don’t know where my friend is, but last I saw him he was talking to a blonde slut with big jugs on the patio. I walked away because there was nothing for me. Neither of them noticed.I lean against the DJ booth, currently occupied by a mop-headed guy from Eastern Europe withnot an ounce of muscle on his skeletal frame. He bobs his hair to the music like a dufus, gettingall into it, and a 300-pound man directly facing the booth gives him a thumbs-up sign. I noticeI’m starting to sweat, but I don’t want to take of my jacket because I hate the shirt I’m wearingunderneath. The only reason I have it on is so my fashion-forward friend takes a break from
 
making derogatory comments about my limited wardrobe. I wipe the sweat off my face and in aflash a girl, alone, enters my view.My eyes must have adjusted to the darkness because I see her clearly. She has long black hair, a petite nose, enormous dick-sucking lips that seem out of place with her olive complexion,and small, expressionless eyes. She begins to turn away from me and in that quarter-second profile view all I can see besides her thick, shaggy hair were these two lips that protrudeunnaturally from her face. By the time her back faces me my legs are moving and my right armrises from its resting point besides my hip. I tap her three times on her left shoulder, and sheturns around and looks at me.“Let me guess,” I say, pausing to build suspense, “you are from Argentina.”“Nope,” she says. Her lips curl up slightly, and that encourages me to continue. It’sobvious to me that my appearance meets her minimum requirements.“Colombia?”“Nope.”“Italy.”“No.”“The world has over 180 countries, and I know them all. This could take a while. Giveme a hint,” I say with a slight smile.“I’m a mutt,” she says.“I’m a mutt too. Go on...”“Quarter Somalian, quarter Filipino, half-white.”“Wow… I mean…” I try to regain my composure, “I would have probably never gottenthat.”“Probably not, where are you from?”I go into the whole Persian / Turkish thing, telling her that explains my thick, lusciouseyebrows and generally hairy complexion. She laughs and I realize I’m no longer leaning againstanything, but standing near dancers who are bumping into me and not apologizing. It’s mucheasier to figure out where to put my hands if I’m leaning against something. I take two stepsaway from her towards the bar. At the moment I step back, I leave my right arm suspendedrandomly in the air as if it was a bridge, and ask her where her friends are at, an innocuousquestion that gives her an acceptable excuse to follow a strange man two steps towards the bar 
 
without admitting to herself that she is showing too much interest. She does not realize howmuch knowledge of human persuasion it took to pull that ridiculously simple feat, and at the timeI don’t realize it either. At some point it became too laborious for my brain to process every littletrick it learned from either books, movies, watching other men, or personal experience. My bodyis simply a vehicle for my brain to act, and in that way I’m a robot.Much of my body weight rests on my right elbow, which is planted on the bar. My lefthand casually drapes across my abdomen. My left leg is ramrod straight while my right leg has akink at the knee. In college Art History class I learned that this type of body position, with onehip above the other, was a great step forward in art. There is a name for it that I don’t remember  but being able to reproduce this stance in stone was impossible for most of human history.I am so into my own bullshit that I have trouble paying attention to what a girl tells me ina loud bar. This girl is no exception and I drone on about myself for some time—about how I’ma free-thinking wanderer that takes risks, but indirectly so it doesn’t come across as bragging. Imention the countries I’ve visited and the scientist job I threw away, like I’m proud of being broke but with intimate knowledge of the bed bug life cycle. She digs it, of course, and I let her add her own plain thoughts every minute or two, but I interrupt often because if she talks toomuch she will take charge of the conversation and I will get off task. I want to get to know her asa person just a touch more than the DJ, whose sedate music is somehow whipping women in tall black boots into a frenzy. It’s a disgusting sight but in the capital of the free world I can’t findany other bar that I fit better in.Out of thin air GQ appears and reminds me that we have to go to a party down the street.I put my index finger up and five minutes later ask her if she wants to have a drink with me at alater date. She looks down and lets out a little smile. She has yet to ask me my name so I’mforced to ask first. Rachel. It’s cute that she is shy in an endearing way, that she is not aweathered professional working on her 100th cock. It won’t be long now until girlfriend circlesthrow a party for this momentous occasion: “100th Cock Party,” says the Evite with an cartoonimage of martini glasses complete with olives and lemon twists. And condoms if they wereallowed.I text message Rachel in exactly two days, on a Monday night. I ask her if she wants tograb a drink on Wednesday. She replies that she is busy but if I rather hang out on Thursday. Her counter-offer was an extremely good sign, and it did calm the irritation that came from taking a
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