Untamed

She looked at me weirdly, having a bit of difficulty comprehending what I had just told her. Her face registered that she had to respond soon, but the little light in her mind short circuited the moment I had said it. ‘I just don’t want to get emotionally attached with the people that I sleep with, the men that I climb in bed with each night,’ I continued, providing explanation for my comment. The same stare looked at me before she finally opened her mouth to speak, in that annoyingly high-pitched, way-too-happy voice, ‘So, you don’t kiss the men you sleep with, because you think that’s how you’ll become emotionally attached?’

‘You can have fantastic sex without having to kiss the man, you know,’ I responded in perhaps an overly defensive tone. I wasn’t completely detached from the idea of love, I already have a husband. I just don’t want or need men to like me. Not involving kisses seems to have worked for me so far, and I’ve had my fair share of sexual experience – some that my husband know about, but a large portion of them being ones he is oblivious to. I have had eight affairs and just last night I was with another man in a dirty hotel room having a ‘quickie’. It is fair to say that I love sex, addicted to it even and often there have been times I’ve considered being a whore. Why not get paid for doing something you love?

My friend who sat across from me knew all about my ideas, she was usually the person I turned to whenever I needed someone to rant at or use the shoulder of. There have been plenty of times where I have envisioned removing the clothes from her body and licking every portion of that smooth skin, all the way down to her cunt. She is the ex-wife of one of my ex-boyfriends, one whom I had before my current husband and one who I thought was particularly lousy in bed. At least when I was with him, I thought I could teach him a few things, show him how to do it properly but he just wasn’t adventurous.

In any case, regardless of how many arguments her and I had, we always came back to each other. I would like to say that we would come back to each other and make up with sex, but I never dared venture that far with her. We continued to talk about my issue with involving myself with men and she asked me just how many kinds of people I had been with. I had to be completely truthful with her; there was no reason not to tell her, ‘I’ve had screamers and those who were silent. I’ve had both men and women, sometimes on their own, sometimes together. I’ve had those who were gentle, and those who were rough. I’ve picked up people from any place you could imagine; a bar, party, formal meeting or merely sitting beside someone for long enough.’

This seemed to arouse a little attention in her as she bit her lip, leaned forward and asked, ‘Want to hear something that happened to me?’ I nodded out of curiosity and she started telling me her story. The details of the story are vague to me, now that I try and recall what it was she had said to me; my mind was elsewhere. I thought more about sex than possibly any man does. It does bring to mind a time where I recall bedding three men on one night – not simultaneously unfortunately, but one after the other, each in their own rooms. The first guy didn’t turn out to be much at all – one of those ‘too shy to do anything’ kinds; it didn’t take me long to redress and work my way to the second room.

It goes without saying that it didn’t take me long to have the second guys dick in my mouth, either. I’m not exactly sure who was doing what; it was a bit difficult to tell if it was my mouth fucking him, or if he was just fucking my mouth. He told me that I was good at what I did, and I thought it was just “one of those lines” that men use to get the woman to continue or to do it again some other time. He came, I swallowed, pulled my bra back down into position from where he had raised it upwards and I made my merry way down to the third guy. The kind words, the soft lips, the tender touch of his hand and sensual kisses; if I had to say it, there was definitely variety between these men. It was the third man who I chose to fall asleep with that night, and I did so quite happily, quite contentedly. In the morning, I had to face dealing with memories about him that turned my stomach. I tried to forget about it.

The ex-wife of the ex had finished her story by the time I had snapped out of my daydream. She had been clicking her fingers in my face for several seconds, trying to get my attention and I smiled at her. ‘Interesting story,’ I said, not even the slightest bit capable of reciting anything she had told me. It was obvious to me that she had cottoned on to this little fact as soon as I had tried to say anything; she didn’t look very impressed, but at the same time, her air of curiosity and excitement clearly lingered in her eyes. Somehow I had sparked a fire in her, and one that she wanted to extinguish, all she needed was an offer from someone; anyone.

‘Shall we go make a story of our own, then?’ I asked, placing my hand on her thigh and sliding it toward the spot I hoped to have my mouth clenched over in just a few more moments. She smiles coyly and looked down at my hand; I actually thought she would refuse, as she took my hand off her leg. ‘Okay,’ came her answer as she held my hand and stood up, enticing me to follow her to the bedroom.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked me finally, taking my hand as I looked down at my feet and the floor around me. Here the tears come, I thought to myself, as the feeling of my eyes beginning to water started. A tear rolled down my cheek as I shook my head, feeling confused and responsible for all that had happened. Responsible for what has now become the life of a man who had been, as he would say, ‘saved’ and ‘helped’ by me from allowing his past to continue – before there was me, narcotics and lethargy were things that man were fluent in. Now that I had left, there must have been a feeling that there was no reason to go on, no reason to try, no reason to keep the past from repeating itself. Why should there be? The one thing that had helped him, that had cared enough to stop the past from happening again was gone. How could I not feel responsible for that?

There was so much confusion inside me that I wasn’t certain how to deal with. I recall vividly the request to remain friends, despite all that happened and yet the entire time I had been subjected to commands not to do anything. “Don’t contact me, but tell me how you are,” were just some of the mixed signals that were directed toward me. It had been so long since then and there were many things that were left behind, many things that I made an effort to deal with and move on from. At no given time did I expect to hear this, and at no point did I foresee the consequences being anything like this. I knew that where I was then is a lot worse than where I found myself in the present day; there was much more that I cared about, much more that I cherished and was thankful for. So much that I wasn’t going to take for granted, and a reason to be happy sat inches away from me, with my hand in his.

My mind still wallowed in confusion, guilt and responsibility despite all the logic and reasoning that at least one part of my mind tried to throw around and convince me of.

Several more salt-tasting tears wet my cheeks as he pulled me by my hand, raising me off my ass and bringing me into his arms. There was no stopping it now; I simply began to cry more freely with every second that passed in his arms. A feeling of stupidity sat in my mind as my head rested on his shoulder and my arms held him closely whilst he stroked my hair. Only several moments before, we were laughing at a joke that I can no longer recall; both of us doing our own separate things, yet managing to do them together and now there I was crying like an idiot. He roamed around in his fictional world as I paid attention to my reality; at times I would slip out of my reality and into his fictional world for a few moments. Eventually, my own reality tugged me and held me there as I read the words of the past. I wasn’t laughing anymore. My connection to this past was an unstable one, so many times severed and reconnected that I forgot to keep track of it.

It didn’t take long before the expression on my face to change and he noticed it, asking me what the matter was. He began to learn as I turned my reality toward him, the past staring him directly in the face as the words entered his retina and translated their meaning in his brain. Silence fell upon me as I sat there, watching him delve into the past, thinking about the drug ridden state. There was no other way to answer his question, I felt as though I had to show him, to let him see for himself. It made me feel bad that I had to involve him into the problem – I really didn’t want to make my problem his too. ‘Oh…’ he said, as the ending finally came and my reality had now become both of ours. Nothing came to mind to respond with, so I nodded and made a small sound as a way to recognise that I was still listening. That fictional world of his had just gone on hold.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked me finally, taking my hand as I looked down at my feet and the floor around me.

I happened to stumble across an interesting, yet quite lengthy, blog post made by a user who had a bad experience with an online company called PriceRitePhoto. The user had purchased a camera online via the stores website and experienced nothing but problems from that moment on; the company called confirming details of shipment, attempted to sell additional parts with the camera and made threats to the person when the customer informed them that they would be writing an article on their experience. Apparently the store claimed they would contact this person’s boss and CEO, would also contact the police and have them arrested, if they dared to say a negative word about PriceRitePhoto. Oh, and the customer never received their near $3,000 camera that they ordered from the store.

The user goes to the effort of posting several reviews they had found that claimed similar testimonies about their own experience with the store, with one user even reporting that PriceRitePhoto threatened to charge their credit card $100 if they wrote a negative review, with an additional $250 for every posting after the initial one. None of the customers ever received their product and plenty of people have gone to the lengths to try and get the store delisted with places such as Yahoo! Shopping. It makes me feel pleased to say that I not only fail to have a credit card but also choose not to purchase products online. For most, buying online probably works for them and is an incredible help to their shopping needs, but I think I’ll prefer dealing with in-store bullshit, as opposed to people who are half a world away from me.

Guilt, betrayal, and the feeling of being ‘dirty’ swept over me as I sat there on the end of the bed, in a room that I should never have been in. It had all started so seemingly innocently; I originally only went there to deliver a few things that I had given my word on doing. Somehow it had turned into a delivery and many intense moments of unbridled, heated passion – I know how it happened too; my memory reminded me every second that I closed my eyes. Nothing more than translucent images of two bodies in a close embrace, arms around each other tightly, gripping at each others back, heads resting on each others shoulders, close to the others neck. The panted breath, the hands roaming through each others hair as both bodies moved together in rhythm, responding to each other.

It should never have happened.

A high-pitched hissing sound, similar to static on a television set filled my ears, and I made the move to cover them. The hissing faded and was filled with soft voices, familiar voices and a conversation that I swore I knew. It felt odd to me, I couldn’t instantly recognise it but I definitely had the feeling it happened recently, which was interesting – the feeling made me nauseous, at any given time I could have believed that I had been propped up with medication. The many little pills that rattle in the paper cup, feeding my mind with its last little ounces of creativity, even if they are a little left of centre, even if they are seventy-three degrees away from actual reality.

‘Thanks just leave them on the table,’ I heard in my ears. I shook my head, grabbing slightly at my hair as I tried to force the conversation out of my head. If I didn’t understand it, I didn’t want to hear it. ‘Please, make yourself feel at home,’ I heard again, in the voice of a male who seemed so familiar, yet so unrecognisable. I whimpered like a little girl who was hearing something horrible, something that she shouldn’t hear or didn’t want to hear as images began to seep into my mind once again. It played backwards, the beginning now being the two bodies embracing together, performing one of the most animalistic acts together and then leading back to each person being dressed. It wasn’t until then that I noticed who the two people were.

Me… and his brother.

No more than a few moments later, the actual brother in my memories entered the room, walking toward me with a smile as he began to button up his expensive collar shirt. I noticed his chest, a tanned shade of brown which triggered another memory of events from earlier. Stupidly, I closed my eyes, allowing my mind to punish me with the torment of such memories; with me slowly undressing him purely to see the new tan he had given himself. First the shirt, and a smile on his face as well as mine, then the pants. It didn’t even seem logical to even go near the pants, but we both went there – first me, then him. Not much else was said between him and me as I made my way towards the front door. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him and I wouldn’t even dare think of what to do next.

‘Come on dear, it’s time,’ I heard the voice of a woman saying, although the voice was horribly muffled. A heavy clank, the sound of a lock releasing then once again the woman’s voice, but this time much clearer, ‘open up, sweetie. There’s a good girl.’ I felt the clasp of her cold hand over my mouth as she used her other hand to pinch the nostrils of my nose closed, forcing me to swallow. The woman looked at me with a crooked smile on her face and rose to her full height, standing there in her white uniform and looking at me a little longer before beginning to walk away. In her hand I saw a small paper cup as she reached for the door and pulled it closed, locking it once more and leaving me here. Alone, in this white room filled only with one bed which bound me to its mattress by the arms and the legs.

After spending some time roaming around the Internet and stumbling on a few blogs, I manage to come across one particular blog called Hecho en Mexico. At some point, Adam happened to read a book called Around the World in 80 Babes written and self-published by a rather amateur author by the name of Nigel Gohl. Adam took it upon himself to write a review on the book that gave his opinion on the contents of Around the World… and, as any decent person would do, added the correct details to the book.

Nigel didn’t seem to appreciate the fact that Adam put Nigel’s name beside the title of the book that he, indeed, did publish and write himself. As a result, Nigel Gohl wasn’t very impressed with the contents of the review and also requested that Adam change Nigel’s name in the author details from “Nigel Gohl” to “Nige54.” Several e-mails passed between the two, with the author of Around the World in 80 Babes saying, in my opinion, some very ridiculous things. You can read the e-mails, which Adam has been as kind as to share, by reading his entry Only Fools and Horses.

The following few quotes are taken directly from one of the e-mails Adam shared with the public that Nigel Gohl had sent to him, as well as a few things Nigel wrote on his own website. There were a few comments Nigel had made that I felt the desire to comment on myself and address. Here’s hoping that the infamous Nigel will find my particular entry and care to explain a few things.

Now obviously I don’t agree with what you wrote, however everyone is entitled to their opinion. However, having these kinds of comments on the net about me are never good and I would appreciate it if you could remove this review from your blog as it’s not good for my day job…

While I could understand how some people might not wish for certain things to be said about them and easily accessed by those who matter, I hardly think that Nigel has much right to request things not be published about him. Nigel, you published a book that can be obtained by anyone in Australia; I would be more worried about women stumbling across your book, which does nothing more than reveal how you manipulated women to spread their legs, than I would about my boss finding some random person’s blog that, Lord behold, speaks an opinion about you. I suppose that you are unfamiliar with the definition and idea behind “freedom of speech.”

If you can write a book that is nothing more than a 233 page wank-fest about every encounter you had with the “divided pussy,” and publish many copies of it for people to read, then a few people should be allowed to write about you and your pathetic excuse for a ‘book.’ I wonder, Nigel, when you wrote your book about the sixteen year old German schoolgirl you picked up, as well as the many intoxicated tourists and what-not, did you wonder whether they gave you permission to write about them? I wonder if you considered how their careers might have been affected if a colleague or bosses of any of these women happen to find your book and read about them – or is it that you only think about yourself.

…if you refuse and you decide that for some reason it is absolutely necessary to keep the review out there, you will continue to piss me off. But this feeling will be some what relieved if you could you at least change ‘Nigel Gohl’ to ‘Nige 54’. This would ensure that ‘Nigel Gohl’ no longer comes up on a google search…

Is it that you’re concerned about fellow workers finding you and realising what kind of person you truly are, or you just cannot handle having such opinions being publicly said about you, for anyone to take at their own discretion, and have your name put right beside the words of the writer. Will it annoy you that Adam keeps his review there merely because he might be closer to speaking the truth than any little “testimony” that someone has probably been paid or written, by you, to say?

You should have understood that people would want to comment on you and your book and surely you aren’t as deluded to actually believe that every feedback you received would be positive. What, you think that every person in the world is in complete support of sleeping with just about anyone they could lure into their bed? I also wonder if the partial reason for you wishing to hide yourself from fellow workers might possibly be because they too have been lured into your bed. I doubt you would want them to know the game you play – it would be much harder to get them to sleep with you a second time around, if they knew all the tricks you pulled, right?

I noticed that Nigel went to the effort of addressing us lovely blog users who chose to write about him, saying:

1. Blogging

Reading blogs is about as interesting as it sounds because invariably people generally just crap on about nothing really that exciting. However, a couple of bloggers out there have come across my book and spent a good couple of blogging sessions debating the merits of it. As blogging is not policed these bloggers can say whatever they like and as such, some of the phrases used to describe me and my book are nearly unprintable.

That’s right, Nigel, because when I have a keyboard in front of me and my WordPress “write a post” page ready to take any word that I wish to write, I suddenly feel invincible. I suddenly have an opinion that I normally wouldn’t have and I suddenly dare to press ‘publish’. Gee, it must have felt very similar to the way that you felt when you dared to write over two-hundred pages of female manipulation. I hardly doubt that you would dare tell these things to the faces of the women to play these games with.

Ironic that you choose to self-publish your book, also; you knew that would be a way for you to get what you want to say out to the public without your words, thoughts, opinions and whatever else being policed by someone else. You say that we crap on with a lot of things, purely because we’re hiding behind our blogs and no one polices us but as far as I recall, it is you trying to change your name from Nigel Gohl to Nige54 and choosing to avoid going through a real publisher, who would review and edit and police your book.

Shouldn’t it be you that we say is crapping on about anything and because you’re trying to change your name to Nige54 and hide behind that, so no one will know that it is you? I fail to see the point in publishing a book, if you aren’t willing to expose yourself to everyone, including those whom you work with. Perhaps you should just keep your stories of deceit and female trickery to a select group of male friends, if you have any and provided they want to listen.

But I did some research and the downfall of these bloggers is that they have probably forgotten how much information they have offered about their personal life during their drunken blogging sessions and as such, these intimate details are available for everyone to see.

Yes, because every person that has a blog has made drunken posts that reveal their innermost secret and intimate details. I wonder, you say that they hide behind things, yet here you say that bloggers have revealed quite a lot about themselves. It’s either one or the other, my little tourist porking friend.

It should come as no surprise that both of these individuals – they are not worth naming – are very sad and from what I can gather, very lonely individuals who have two things in common:
1. they have never enjoyed the company of a real woman, and
2. they hate all guys like me.

Wait, wasn’t it you who had said in a previous e-mail to Adam that, you simply don’t like being called an ‘A-grade cock head’ when he had never met you? Yet here you are saying that he and someone else hates you and has never enjoyed the company of a real woman (although I believe your definition of a ‘real’ woman is horribly skewed), despite the fact that you have never met either of these blog users.

They hate guys who are successful, live life to the full, encourage goodness wherever they go and manage to date a serious amount of hot babes along the way. And why is it that they hate these things?

What is there to hate? You tell, in your own words, “white lies to women and they love it.” The only reason these women sleep with you, regardless of their profession, age and quantity, is because of those white lies. If you didn’t lie about the job you have, and a few other things that you’ve had to tell them, the fact is that these women wouldn’t even sleep with you at all. If they would, why is there the need to say any kind of lie in the first place? Face it; you aren’t even half the woman entrepreneur that you believe you are.

You aren’t successful and I don’t think having a collection of sexually transmitted diseases can be classed as “living life to the full” or “encourage goodness.”

The irony!

Tell me about it, you’re dripping with irony like a woman who marinated herself in her favourite perfume for fourteen hours.