The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Let me step out of the immediate narrative for a second to make the big picture clear. The Gemini Escalation was our turning point. We weren’t certain of it at the time, but in retrospect it’s clear. We hit the big time that night in Summers at Fort Lauderdale. In the second Decan we showed the boys that we could give them a really fun, naughty time. But our show is grounded in finding new, innovative and entertaining methods of separating cute young ladies from their clothing — we were never going to lack for a male audience at shows.

But we also showed the girls, in a really visceral fashion, just how potent Livia’s hypnotism can be in commanding the human body — and in liberating the mind. In the third Decan, we proved to every woman present just how far we can push the feminine pleasure as well. And this is in an era when the female orgasm is not as talked about. The girls liked what they saw — a lot.

Some of you might be wondering if we will ever do for women en masse what we did for the boys en masse at Summers. All I’m going to say for now on that topic is, have patience. Anticipation is a wonderful thing! But I will tell you three reasons why we don’t immediately follow the second Gemini Decan with a mirror inverse for the other gender. The first is that we just can’t. Women are harder to get off than men. When was the last time a man had to fake an orgasm?

We didn’t expect to pop five hundred guys, but doing that to mass numbers of girls would be even harder — and, it would require a mood quite different to that of Spring Break. Until we hammer our cultural message through even harder, it would also be likely to traumatize and horrify the women involved. Maybe. In retrospect I’m less sure of this, in light of things that you’ve no doubt already heard about in newspapers that will happen at some of the later Escalations — but that is our rationale right now.

We have more ruthless reasons, too. One is money. In the wake of the Gemini Escalation, and the tidal wave of word-of-mouth publicity our Spring Break shows caused, Livia will acquire several clients. These are mostly but not exclusively women, and are uniformly ridiculously wealthy. Livia and I have private appointments with them — sometimes just Livia, sometimes I go along. This could be to make the lady feel comfortable in her heterosexuality, or for more direct physical activities. These usually end up looking a lot like the climax of Cherry’s show, albeit minus the humiliating and kinky buildup. These appointments are often fun and only occasionally a real chore, but not the high point of either of our sex lives.

And this memoir is not going to touch on this topic in any great depth, because these women (and men) are still alive, and they are very rich, and very powerful, and they value discretion. But the core point you have to understand is that the net profit the Gemini Escalation turns us is about seven million dollars, over the course of the next year and a half.

Yeah, no kidding, those older society ladies sign six-figure paycheques to get the Jeri special. There was even a memorable seven-figure one. I feel a bit sorry for them, actually — with their level of cash there are so many more entertaining ways to get off. But we get them off, harder and longer than women are usually capable of going with their inhibitions intact. And we get rich doing so. I bring this up, because starting around midway through our visit to Los Angeles, money just isn’t an issue to us any more. We aren’t doing dumb shit like Livia did the first time she was flush, either. We’re sociologically minded and have an amateur statistician on the team. We invest.

This market will dry up after about three years. There are other hypnotists out there, and some of them are frauds, and some of them bungle the part that involves discretion. So high society get a little more watchful, and potential clients spend a lot less. But by that time, we’re set for life in the stock markets, so it doesn’t matter to us. But that’s still in the future at this point.

To wrap up this volume, I want to tell you about one last, very special, hookup. It happens in Daytona, two weeks after Spring Break when Livia and I aren’t fucking due to my ill-thought comment. Things are pretty tense and it’s a dark time for me. I hit the research hard with Mimi as Livia shuns us and prepare for the coming road trip and what will ultimately become the Phoenix show — which has a ton of rehearsal and gadgetry. But you’ve probably figured out by now that I am a man of exceedingly high libido, so eventually despite all the tense psychology I do go out on the prowl. Sex can be for joy, and it can be carefree — but it can also be a quite necessary form of escapism when other things aren’t carefree.

Ironically, given the vaguely existential context, this is actually one of my candidates for Best Pickup Ever — and frankly, you should know by now that’s saying something. I’m not talking about my best actual sex, mind you — I’m talking about the most audacious tale I have about meeting total strangers and fucking them very shortly after. The sex is still pretty damn good, mind you. So, O Piqued Reader, are you ready for a lurid and over-the-top story of sexual excess and rampant debauchery? Oh, who am I even kidding? If you weren’t up for it you’d have thrown my memoir against the wall and turned to something more wholesome long, long before this point.

So, I have already observed the decidedly casual attitude Fort Lauderdale seems to take to public nudity and sex, and have been considering trying something like this for a while. However, there’s a reason this particular story takes place after Spring Break proper has wrapped up — this stunt could get me arrested (again) or kicked out of Fort Lauderdale (or is more likely to than the stunt with Diane under the beach bridge), so I didn’t want to try it until all the shows were wrapped up and everyone else had done everything they wanted.

I didn’t plan it out from the beginning, mind you — my primary young conquest isn’t a ‘mark’ in that sense. I just have it in the back of my mind and decide to act on opportunities when they present themselves to me while wandering Daytona Beach. The weather is a bit chillier now, and the beach is more desolate in the aftermath of Spring Break — Daytona is nearly as active that way as Lauderdale, even if not quite as iconic.

Her name is Leah. I see her on the beach blatantly ogling hardbodies of both genders — I’m sure she thinks her behavior is absolutely subtle, but her social skills are not the best. Her Aura is strong, filled with unfulfilled sexual desires and tinged with deep streaks of fear, self-loathing and bitterness. At this point, I can relate; maybe that’s why I choose her over the other generic beach bunnies.

She’s certainly cute, though, with a fresh heart-shaped face and glossy black hair in a symmetrically-parted bobcut. But the Spring Break aesthetic is not kind to her — she’s flat up top, her bikini is more conservative than the norm for Spring Break (much like a sports bra and track shorts) and her body implies she’s more used to intellectual pursuits than either athletics or carnal games.

She is, in short, a nerd — cute and desirable in a scholastic setting, but not able to stand out during Spring Break. She even brought books to the beach — not the classy chick lit reads or high literature older women bring with them to look sophisticated, but some kind of reference books and notebooks and a jar of spare pencils. And there’s some shyness and awkwardness at work for sure. She looks at hot people hungrily, but she never goes up and makes a move toward anyone.

I profile her fairly quickly — she likely came to Daytona Beach for Spring Break with female friends in the hopes of getting laid. Maybe, secretly, even with said female friends. Like many horny guys and fewer horny women, she failed. Her friends all got their requisite guys and wild hookup stories. She didn’t. And then she just didn’t get on the plane back, filled with bitterness and want. Spring Break is now over, and all she can do is ogle, fantasize and recriminate.

I don’t think she is a college student. Her circumstances must have let her stay behind. She was probably a fourth-year when her friends were freshmen, and is now a slacker without a job. Maybe she takes time to work on research for her Masters, I don’t know. But she looks lost and desperate and horny, wandering about amidst the fading detritus and quiet ruin left in the wake of the world’s most bodacious week of partying. I quietly decide I will buy her a flight home, even if she blows off my best attempts to hook up with her with brazen contempt. (I haven’t got the NCSS checks from Livia yet at this point, but a plane ticket’s well within my standard expenses.)

I wander up to her slowly. She starts at me, then looks away and blushes. She quickly tidies up her books, folding over page corners to remember where she is. I’m in a nut-hugger Speedo, and I’m wearing suntan lotion and a quality aftershave. Yeah, I’m being pretty blatant with the sexuality here — I want something tonight, and I’m not interested in second and third dates to get it. She looks up when I move to sit down beside her. She’s clearly into me — into anyone, but me more than most — but she also doesn’t recognize me, which is great. I really want someone who hasn’t heard anything about the recent Escalations or the Trips at all. I want something that reminds me of the pickups from a simpler time, before I was tangled up with Livia.

It’s a sign of my changing tastes, though, that I open with something knowingly cheesy rather than more sincerely suave. “Are you sure you’re not getting tired? Because you’ve been running through my mind since I first laid eyes on you.”

Girls usually either giggle, roll their eyes or throw out a sassy putdown when you drop a cheesy line (or they get really offended and angry, but I’m usually good enough to filter those ones out), even if they’re into you. But Leah doesn’t. She kind of chokes. She’s staring at my torso and genitals, and she just says, “Um, thanks. That’s really nice.”

“No, no,” I admonish her playfully. “You’re not allowed to respond like that to a pickup artist. It’s in the Universal Guide for Hot Girls. You have to diss me or prove you’re smarter than me.”

Now, Leah is a genuinely smart lady, but witty repartee is not her strong suit. It’s like I’m a telepath and can hear the thoughts in her head: Wow, he’s hot! Think of something clever to say back! No, not that! Don’t mess this up, Leah! You can do it! It’s no exceptional talent to realize that’s what she’s thinking — you probably would in my place, too. “You’re a pickup artist? That’s neat. I’ve never met one before. It sounds exciting. And I don’t know you, so I don’t have any frame of reference to know if I’m smarter than you.”

“You’ve never met one before? A girl like you, out on this beach, with the sun going down soon? I figured I’d be like the tenth guy to try a sweet line on you today alone! Did you just get here?”

Well, that’s a remarkable amount of conversational real estate already covered there in an economical word count — I’ve admitted to being a pickup guy, so there’s no deception, and dropped a relatively subtle compliment. I wouldn’t try the latter with a lady wielding a real verbal rapier, but Leah isn’t. She’s actually having trouble meeting my gaze and not focusing on my abs. I don’t pull an “eyes are up here” thing, because why ruin her fun or make her feel weird? I can actually believe I’m the first to approach her, at least overtly; she’s cute but not the stereotypical bikini babe most of the amateurs go for, and her lust and awkwardness could be off-putting or even threatening to many guys.

Not gonna lie, the conversational bit is hard here because she’s so awkward. I pull out a well-rehearsed monologue about trivia from the history of Daytona Beach, which includes a few innuendos alluding to my skill at cunnilingus. She gets them, I think, but just responds with “um” and “yeah” and “that’s neat”. She’s a smart lady, but really awkward, and her confidence is not at its high-water mark right now.

Her topic of study is apparently research into mating hierarchies and sexual competition among bonobos. I follow what she’s saying loosely at first, and can engage with her on evolutionary biology — and use a bit of ape-human social similarity innuendo to make her blush and giggle. Soon, though, I’m getting a weirdly passionate stream-of-consciousness diatribe too heavy in the social sciences jargon for me to really understand. It’s her Masters’ research. (Called it!) When she realizes she’s babbling, she clams up.

“Sorry,” she says. “I can be such a spaz sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I reassure her. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. This is the modern era. You big-brain types are gonna rule the world.”

That gets a laugh, at least.

I’ve got her, I realize, and she really wants it — but the conversation is nerve-wracking for her. So I give her lots of sentences she can just give more indifferent replies to, and talk more aggressively like a narcissistic guy. Not normally a good poise for a pickup — but it becomes so when your partner is horny and too nervous to talk, but also needs to be taken through all the expected social hoops before we get down to the banging. But I’m horny, and I’m feeling reckless, so I decide to really go for the gold. The sun is setting, and I maneuver her into asking me out to dinner.

We go back to her car — a blue Volkswagen Beetle — and I pull on jeans and a leather half-top from the gym bag I brought with me, leaving much of my chest exposed. That’s socially acceptable in the summer around Daytona Beach — I look like a typical rough-and-tumble beach stud, but I’m a lot more affable and pleasant than the baseline, insecure-macho model. She just pulls on a faded grey university t-shirt, leaving her legs bare.

I’ve been strolling the beach for about two hours now, just walking about and trying to enjoy the palm trees and the sight of pretty ladies and not brood about NCSS, so I don’t have a vehicle anywhere near here. Usually a lack of hot wheels is something you cover over or make excuses for in pickup, but I really doubt she cares, nor is actually dumb enough to buy the typical excuses. As we’re driving about, I time the question perfectly, just as we’re passing a diner Livia and I visited two days ago: “do you want an upscale place, or a more cozy environment like that?”

Well, she obviously wants cozy over upscale for a potential hookup, and never even suspects that I chose this diner specifically. Nice!

Pam’s Diner is pure Americana, a real mom-and-pop greasy spoon. It was built in the fifties and looks kinda retro — though it’s way more authentic and real than Remedial’s glossy caricature look. It’s worn down and rough-hewn, but clean — a real diner that just happens to have history, not a polished rendition of the kind of malt shop that never actually existed.

The staff are rather friendly — both in the flirty sense and the just comfortable sense. They dress real sexy in a subdued way, too — those old-style powder blue waitress uniforms with the skirts, white trim and bibs, like on Twin Peaks. Best of all, one particular one I found especially desirable was looking openly at Livia as well as me when we were first there.

Well, luck is with me tonight, as the same waitress that served me and Livia is on shift. Her name, according to the cute little nametag (am I developing a nametag fetish now? really?), is Darcy. She’s not a classical beauty, being a bit gawkish and angular, but she’s still really hot: a stacked redhead with wild, curly hair, playful green eyes, a ton of freckles, big lips and crooked teeth. She’s a bit older than me — late thirties or early forties — and gives off a vibe of being sexually experienced, but unashamed of that fact and still capable of a girlish playfulness after those many years of experience. Put succinctly: a damn fine lady, and potentially up for what I have in mind.

I was always going to do something with Darcy, if Livia didn’t beat me to it — I suspect we both have her earmarked. Normally, Livia and I would want to share a lady like this — but right now, that obviously isn’t on the table. I feel a sharp and pervasively disquieting pang as I realize how unpleasant it is to view Livia as a competitor rather than the gleeful partner in crime I have grown so comfortable trusting and having beside me. I hope I can fix things with her. But I do not want to dwell on that tonight, so I forcefully put it out of my mind.

Let me, at this point, explain a concept known as the magician’s force. It’s used in card tricks, but pickup artists have more nefarious applications for the same rough idea. The basic concept is that you ask someone to pick an arbitrary item, like a card out of a deck. However, the magician uses subtle cues and guidance, or misdirection, to control the card the spectator picks.

Using much the same principles combined with a knowledge of cliché structures in semi-flirtatious dialogue, a pickup artist can provide subtle prompts that get his marks to say or ask specific things. This is the “dialogic programming” technique I talked about pioneering way back at the beginning of this book. It all comes down to seeding ideas earlier in the conversation, and understanding how a (less carefully trained) human brain is going to mentally compose an attempt at ‘clever’ dialogue. You can be witty at a girl, and get her trying to be witty back at you.

But you’ve put hundreds of hours into working out the various unexpected places where the conversation trees actually go, and she hasn’t, so the end result is that you guide her into saying exactly what you want her to say. And she doesn’t resist it, because from her perspective it was her own idea! Of course, people only go along with this if they want to, or at least want to seem flirty — but when they do, you can lead people into proposing some things with wonderfully lewd outcomes without thinking it through.

Obviously, pickup artistry is not usually a desirable topic of conversation with a girl you are trying to pick up (except with Livia, but she’s one of a kind). Many pickup artists don’t want girls to know they’re pickup artists, which is why they avoid the cheesy lines. I’m an exception there, because I generally want to be more transparent, and just try to blow through any backlash with raw charm.

There is, however, a narrow exception to this rule, and it focuses around bi-curious girls — ones who seem genuinely curious about pickup and how it works and what it can do, in a perhaps slightly vicarious sense. It’s still going to dock you points with the lady to actually talk about pickup, but it can lead places that are worthwhile. Very worthwhile, in exactly the way you, O Eager Reader, are no doubt already anticipating. (Isn’t anticipation a hell of a drug? Beats out cocaine any day of the week!)

So, already wearing a vaguely narcissistic persona, I drop some subtle pickup boasts into my diner-conversation with Leah, and also mention a few romantic comedies. She doesn’t strike me as the jealous type, and seems more intrigued with the whole thing — but I drop the comedies as subtle cues, as Hollywood has set up certain kinds of dialogue that are almost programmed. So I elicit the expected incredulity from Leah though a display of arrogance that dialogic programming demands be challenged, and I’ve already subtly seeded the idea of a wager in her mind by casually mentioning comedies that have racy wagers in them half an hour back.

So, wouldn’t you know it, Leah then decides on her own initiative (in her own internal narrative, at least) to spontaneously challenge me to a fifty-dollar bet that I can get the number of any girl she selects. And wouldn’t you know it, we’re just coincidentally at a random diner that happens to have an exquisitely sexy waitress willing to flirt with both genders. I’m not sure if Leah’s conscious mind picks up on said flirting, but her unconscious mind sure does — and it apparently likes it a lot!

Pickup artistry is not, at its most fundamental, about manipulating girls into doing things they don’t want to do — at least, not if you’re doing it right. (Guys like the pickup wannabe from Swank would obviously disagree, but, well, fuck those guys.) It’s about manipulating social conventions to get girls to feel comfortable doing things they actually do really, really want to do. The actual opponent here is not the girls, it’s the social norms that stand between them and their own desires. Making things seem to happen spontaneously is a great weapon for slaying said norms while keeping the ladies comfortable — wild shit just happens sometimes, you know?

Science teaches us to think in terms of conserved qualities, given that some its most famous discoveries are conservation laws — matter and energy can’t be created or destroyed, entropy never decreases, that kind of thing. Then you throw in economics and the TANSTAAFL principle, and you’ve educated humans to think of things as a zero-sum game. Well, here’s something that shouldn’t be all that mind-blowing to people — but all too often really is. Pleasure is not a conserved quantity. It doesn’t have an innate resource cost.

Human beings are able to make other human beings feel really good, and feel really good themselves, and there’s no inherent cost to that. It’s just an infinite well of sensual gratification. You can dip into it as much as you want, and it never runs out — well, not until menopause or age-induced impotence, at least.

And yet, the majority of humanity just doesn’t do that. And there were good reasons for that — before contraceptives were invented. I always laugh when I hear people talk about the Space Age as if it was some kind of milestone of scientific progress. You know what’s really revolutionary, the one single discovery that changed the world more than anything since the alphabet and penicillin?

It’s not the space shuttle going up to a big dead useless rock in space and collecting a bunch of smaller rocks. If you doubt that, ask yourself what impact that ever had on your life, other than hiding under desks in mortal fear of Russkie nukes. You know what really transformed the world, changed the basic rules of everything? Yeah, it’s the condom. You’re damn right it is.

I’m not saying sex and hedonism can’t have consequences. They clearly can, in realms including the emotional, social, biological, epidemiological and others. But pleasure has no inherent consequences, in a world with condoms. Anything bad that comes forth from it can be avoided by forethought and cleverness — and I specialize in being clever nearly as much as I specialize in being naughty.

I doubted these long-held beliefs — that pleasure is infinite and free for the taking rather than a zero-sum game, that it can be done right, that it has no resource cost and improves the lives of the people who engage in it, and that a pickup artist’s real opponents are the social norms and comfort zones, not the girls — after the NCSS debacle. Well, I’m about to describe a very special night at a quaint Daytona diner that helped me to reorient myself and reaffirm my faith in these principles.

I take Leah up on her wager, and ask her to name a girl. “Where would you like to go?”

“Right here is fine,” she tells me. “How about that waitress? The redhead with the lovely freckles.”

“You really want to lose fifty bucks?” I ask her cockily.

She laughs. “You’re pretty confident. Show me these moves of yours.”

“Wait,” I suggest. “The evening is still young.”

So I kill time. Finally, it’s around 1 AM and we’re talking about movies — I’ve managed to get Leah to open up a fair bit, and it turns out she’s a decent if not witty conversationalist when she’s less nervous (and probably a way better fuck, too), and fairly erudite. By now the diner is mostly deserted. There’s an older, mellow-looking biker couple and a vaguely bored-looking nerd peering into a HAM radio workbook. Darcy brings us a last cup of coffee and tells us the diner closes in an hour. I wait for her to walk back into the double sliding kitchen doors with their ship-like porthole windows, then walk into the kitchen after her. She’s alone in there.

“Hey, babe.”

“Marcelo, right?”

“Yup. When are you off shift?”

She groans. “I need like an extra hour to shut this place down, so three.”

I walk into her personal space. It’s always a chancy thing to do with women, but my instincts tell me this one will respond well — and she does. It probably helps that my torso is mostly exposed, and she’s more conventionally attractive than my date.

“Got any plans?”

“Naw,” she says with a playful smile, “but Ah might have some aspirations. How about you? Date not as steamy as you expected? Honestly, you’re out of her league, sugar.”

“That’s Leah,” I tell Darcy. “Take a second look at her, a careful one. You might find you like what you see.”

“Ah like what Ah see right now. And that lady you came in wit’ two days back, she was ah-mazin — hotter’en a billy goat with a blowtorch! Damn, Ah wanna know how she gets ’er hair all fancy like that...”

“Her name’s Livia. I can give you her number — but I suspect she’ll be back on her own sometime in the near future anyway.”

“How’d a guy like you go from Livia to Leah?”

This was one thing I didn’t quite anticipate — the need to sell Darcy on Leah. If you can read Auras, you can see how much fun she’s going to be. Darcy can’t, so she sees a cute but homely girl, gangly and awkward.

“To tell the truth, I may not be the most monogamous guy in the world. I like to play the field, so to speak.”

Darcy cackles. “Ah never would have guessed,” she says sarcastically. But there’s no judgement or contempt in her voice, only interest and amusement.

“Livia doesn’t mind that. I’m a bit of a pickup artist, honestly. And Leah — well, I have an eye for a certain kind of woman. Looks plain on the surface, maybe a bit repressed, but get her horizontal and she turns into a wild animal. Leah is that. Like the archetypal Catholic Schoolgirl, but without the Catholicism... or the school.”

“No way.”

“Way. Heck, I’d bet you fifty bucks on it.”

“How would I know you’re tellin’ the truth?”

“Well, you could trust me — or, if I play my cards right, you could end up with some hands-on experience.”

Darcy laughs. “Yer a real wolf in the fold, ain’tcha? Ah been around the block, sugar. Ah see what yer anglin’ for.”

I flash her a playful smile. “So that’s a no?”

“Now, Ah didn’t say that, exactly. Ah didn’t actually answer at all.”

That might as well be a yes, or at least a conditional ‘as long as it stays in my comfort zone’ kind of yes.

“Speaking of wagers,” I ask Darcy, “how pissed would you be if I told you I made a bet with Leah that I could score your number?”

“That depends,” Darcy tells me, “on whether’n ya plan to carry through on any promises ya make, or just wanna fluff yer ruffles.”

“Write you number on the bill,” I tell her, “and I promise you won’t regret it.”

So I chat with Leah a bit more, and nudge the conversation in the direction of female sex fantasies. She gets more awkward again, obviously. I work in a mention of the statistic that four out of five women have fantasized about having sex in an “unusual” place. She blushes and says, “Guilty.”

Then I shift back to innocuous topics. They clearly don’t hold her attention, though, and she eventually asks, “What do you think that would be like? I mean, the sex in pu— in an unusual place.”

“It’s hard to describe,” I tell her. “You have to have the right people watching, or be sneaky about it. It’s exciting, but unless you set it up right it doesn’t usually last long.”

“You mean you’ve done it?”

I nod slowly, meet her gaze and Eyefuck her a bit. “Let’s just say I know how to set it up right.”

There’s a lot of things she wants to say, but doesn’t. Finally I put in some more safe, innocuous chatter to fill the time. She’s not listening, and she’s not supposed to be. It’s just to take the tension off, so she doesn’t feel she has to say something and gets more nervous as a result. “I like your voice,” she finally says honestly.

“Thanks,” I reply.

Darcy finally brings the bill. Leah picks it up, looks at it and turns beet red. Finally she hands it to me. There’s a number written on the back in red pen, with words under it: “Call me — either of you.”

Nice. “What can I say,” I tell Leah. “I know a good bet when I see one.”

Then I guide the conversation a bit, with a suspiciously-specific denial. “It was a totally honest, natural pickup. Pay up.”

“Wait a minute,” Leah says. “You went in the kitchen. I bet you just gave her a twenty to write that on the bill, so you could impress me and get in my pants.”

“Well,” I reply. “I do want to impress you, and I do want to get in your pants, but it was a 100% legit pickup, and I can prove it.”

“Go on, then,” Leah says. “Prove it.”

Leah and I are sitting in a booth with a white laminate table between us. The seats are red vinyl, and there’s a black and white checkerboard wall behind us, with framed black and white photos from the 1950s on it. The table is pretty sturdy, bolted to the floor and the structure of the booth.

So I beckon Darcy over, and she comes, her hips swaying slightly in the classic ‘lady on the prowl’ posture some women are so very good at. “Anything I can help y’all with? Anything at all?”

Time to be bold. I stand up, directly facing Darcy. “I just wanted to make a point to my companion here,” I say, quietly enough to not be overheard by the remaining patrons in the diner, “that the note you left us wasn’t financially motivated.”

Before she can reply, I lean in and kiss her. She’s surprised, but doesn’t resist in the slightest. She tastes like mint lip balm, cigarettes and pink bubble gum. I don’t mind in the slightest — even the cigarette aftertaste is part of who she is, and the whole package is attractive in its authenticity. We keep kissing. After ten seconds, there’s an audible gulp as she swallows the bubblegum.

As we kiss, I reach up and unbutton the top button of her powder blue uniform. It’s one of those big novelty buttons about an inch wide. It could be tricky for some, but I have a lot of experience undressing women in all kinds of garments. She doesn’t resist at all, so I move on to the next button, and the next. They’re big, but there aren’t a lot of them. By the time we finish kissing, her uniform is open down past the navel and her panties are on display. She doesn’t protest as I kneel down and undo the last button. I wink playfully up at a gaping Leah as Darcy’s uniform falls open.

Leah is staring at us in amazement, her gaze following the ample curves of Darcy’s body. She’s probably never seen a man just start confidently undressing a woman right next to her in public. She doesn’t know what the fuck is happening here — but her vagina likes it, so her mouth stays shut. I notice that she has her hands up over her chest, maybe a bit defensively — she’s flat, and Darcy’s really well endowed — but I think that fascination and arousal are out-competing jealousy and insecurity in her mind right now. That’s good.

Darcy is standing here, her uniform unbuttoned and open all the way down, laughing to herself. She’s got this “how do I get myself into these things” look, both amused and exasperated, but she isn’t making any move to stop this. I unzip her tight uniform-skirt, and it lands around her legs. She’s wearing white tights, a white garter, white panties and a heavy-duty white bra. None of it is exceedingly erotic — I doubt she expected to get stripped on shift when she got dressed this morning — but the flesh stuffed inside it sure is, and exposing it is a thrill all on its own.

I glance at the remaining patrons — the biker couple and the radio nerd — in a concave mirror mounted in the corner of the room, thus not making it obvious that I did so. They’re all watching us at this point. The nerd has the typical “entranced by boobies” stare, and the biker couple are chuckling to each other and getting ready for a show. This looks like it will be a well-behaved but attentive audience, which is great — no overly aggressive guys, or bluehairs eager to call the police for public indecency.

As I stand back up, I slip one arm around Darcy’s legs and the other around her shoulders and quite literally sweep her off her feet, holding her in the bridal carry pose. She yelps in surprise at first, but then starts chuckling. “Well,” I tell Leah primly, “she looks pretty authentically picked up to me, wouldn’t you agree?”

Pun intended. Leah laughs in simple amazement at the surreality of this actually happening in public. “Yeah,” she finally says. “I guess she does.”

“Could you clear off the table for us?” I ask Leah.

“Oh, boy,” Darcy says. “This is gettin’ hella steamy.”

For a forty-something, Darcy’s pretty conversant with her teen slang. I’m guessing she subsists on a steady diet of college boys (and the occasional girl), and it rubs off on her.

Leah takes a second or two to process what I’m saying, then takes the cutlery and plates off the table and sets them beside her on the vinyl seating. I set Darcy on her back on the table, with her hips at the edge facing me and her legs dangling off. Let’s just say her freckles don’t stop at the neckline, okay? And here’s where it gets dicey. Getting a girl down to her underwear in a diner is one thing, but guys stripping off is a bit different. You can see why I didn’t pull this in Lauderdale with shows still on the roster, right?

But while I could in theory get arrested, the worst that’s really likely to happen is we get chased out of the diner and the mood gets spoiled. So I go for it, quickly stripping off the half-shirt, jeans and Speedo. Keep the sneakers — why not, it’s kinky and gives traction. There’s no cheering or laughter, but the three patrons are still there and seem content to watch quietly.

Both women are staring at me, amazed that I actually stripped. This is a thing you can just do when you have real confidence — do outrageous shit that people fantasize about but would never actually do on their own. But with you taking the lead, all they have to do is not protest — so they don’t.

I got hard kissing Darcy and visualizing what was going to come next. I slip a condom out of the discarded jeans and roll in on. I wonder if Darcy needs a bit of foreplay, but seeing the faint moisture on her panties I doubt it — I guess getting flirted with, kissed intensely, stripped off in your workplace and laid out on a diner table is enough for some girls. So I slide her panties off and spread her legs.

Her knees part to reveal the vision of her face, grinning up at me, awkward and aroused. I briefly take in the vision of her lovely cooch surrounded by a nimbus of radiantly orange hair like the halo on the head of a saint in an Orthodox icon. I don’t stare too long, however. I plunge it in, and Darcy gasps. Wow, the table is just the perfect height for this!

Darcy feels really nice around me. She’s not overly tight, but she’s wet, and experienced, and uninhibited in her enjoyment of my cock. She doesn’t have any pornstar pretensions, either — she just gasps lightly each time I pump her. Her breasts have not been entirely free of gravity’s influence over the years, but they’re huge and natural, and shift and sway inside her reinforced bra.

It’s oddly pleasing to me that she has a bra built for comfort — given her chest and her profession, she’d have to, but it’s a little detail that separates a true sensualist from a vain girl that likes attention. Darcy like comfort, sensation and sex for Darcy, and that makes Darcy sexy. I pump her slowly and gently, knowing full well that in this case the penetration is replacing the foreplay.

Leah, meanwhile, is absolutely transfixed — just staring at us dumb-founded. I guess that makes sense — she’s obviously not promiscuous normally, and was having trouble pulling on the beach. Everyday girls tend to be at a bit of a loss for words when two people they’ve just met start fucking on a table less than a yard from their faces. But she’s not horrified or grossed out — and, I realize with a surge of almost spiritual delight, there’s no bitterness on her face at all. She looked youthful when I met her, but even younger now given that a childlike awe has smoothed away the lines of worry, self-hatred and doubt on her face. Sex can do that, O Mystified Reader. Sex is transcendent. It purifies, rejuvenates and uplifts.

When I first met this girl, I theorized that she was disappointed by her failure to obtain a crazy sex adventure over Spring Break. Well, I hope that what’s happening now meets her wildest fantasies. Her gaze crawls from Darcy’s swaying breasts along her freckled torso to the very nexus of our intercourse, then slowly up my own well-defined abs and slender chest to finally reach my eyes. When she does, I Eyefuck her generously before making my verbal move.

“Do you want to play with us? Do you want to get to have your sexy Spring Break adventure after all? Do you want me in your pants as much as I want to be in them? How about Darcy? She’s pretty nice, isn’t she? You don’t have to do any more of that messy, awkward socializing. You don’t need banter or moves to get what you want. You just need to have the courage to say one word. Say ‘Yes’, Leah.”

She’s paralyzed for a second, then finally speaks. “Yes,” she says hesitantly, and then more decisively. “Absolutely, yes.”

“Then, this is the part where you should start taking off some clothes.”

She predictably misinterprets that, led by her bisexual imagination to reach toward Darcy’s heavy-duty bra and tug ineffectually at it. “It unzips down the center,” Darcy explains.

Leah plays with the bra, blushing, and finally gets it almost undone, so it’s hanging half open. Darcy laughs, and I pump a little harder, shifting the table slightly just so I can see her chest jiggle a bit with the bra in that precarious, teasing position. Darcy finally helps Leah with the zipper and it pops open. Darcy and Leah and holding hands, now, and looking at each other, and that’s oddly intimate and tender given the setting — but I can’t truly pretend that’s where my attention is focused.

Darcy’s cans might be E or F-cups, and freed from her bra they flow and sway wildly. They do sag faintly — she’s an older lady with huge natural tits, after all — and the large nipples look faintly stretched, more fading into the surrounding skin than having clear boundaries. Now, Darcy’s been with a fair few guys before me, and she knows exactly what we like. She wraps her arms around underneath her tits, pushing them together and presenting them, and fixes me with a knowing, proud smirk — and wow, the joy she takes in flaunting it makes this all so much sexier than it already was.

Leah is transfixed. “Can I... uh, touch them?”

“Sure, pumpkin,” Darcy tells her with a wink, “but they taste better than they feel.”

Leah reaches out and touches the nipples, tentatively. I feel Darcy’s vagina clench around me as Leah’s clammy hands first touch her erogenous areas, and she gasps briefly. Leah is really cautious and gentle at first, probably scared of offending, but Darcy grabs her hands and flattens them into her breasts, almost forcing Leah to feel her up more aggressively. She grins at me as she does so, since capturing Leah’s gaze at this point would be basically impossible. Eventually, Darcy’s hand snakes into Leah’s glossy hair and guides it downward, and Darcy starts motorboating Leah.

I feel oddly nostalgic in that moment — Leah’s shy glee and juvenile delight takes me all the way back before I was a skilled pickup artist, to the first time I got to touch and rub and put my face into a really nice pair of big breasts at a strip club. Darcy’s breasts are floppy and quite compliant, and she rubs them all over Leah’s face before guiding her mouth toward a nipple.

Leah starts sucking aggressively. She looks adorable doing so, utterly enrapt. I start playing with Darcy’s clit as Leah experiences her breasts, and I feel Darcy’s vaginal walls respond to our ministrations. After a short time, though, Darcy taps the back of Leah’s head to get her to stop — I guess she’s being a bit too rough, or just awkward. Makes sense — inexperienced people are like that when faced with a nice pair of tits. We’ve all been guilty of that at one point in our lives — at least, anyone into girls.

So Leah goes back to nuzzling and massaging Darcy as I pump her, and I see Leah slide her hand under the table to play with herself. I enjoy watching her for a while — she’s not subtle about it, but is totally oblivious to the possibility that anyone else might notice. And, call me a creeper all you want, but watching a shy girl masturbate is really hot, and fucking Darcy at the same time — even at a slow foreplay-style pace — just makes it better. I’m hard already — I’m in her, after all — but I get way harder watching Leah, and a faint shift in body language tells me that Darcy feels it and approves.

I don’t want to end this here, though, with me and Darcy putting on a sex show for Leah. I want to get her involved, but also not push her beyond any limits she might have. So I don’t want to let her work herself fully to an orgasm — not yet, and not by herself. Instead, I use one hand to brace myself on the table and lean over Darcy. Getting into this position makes it overwhelmingly tempting to touch Darcy’s tits, so I indulge myself for a few seconds, adoring the wonderful flow of the warm flesh with my free hand. As I do so, though, Leah starts breathing more rapidly and working herself more vigorously. I lean over and whisper to her. “Hey, sweetie, don’t finish up just yet. If you really want to play, I’d love to get a taste between your legs.”

She blushes furiously, but stops masturbating. I reach over and pull up her Caltech shirt playfully. Not off, but just teasing to indicate my intentions. She eventually raises her arms and lets me pull the shirt over her head. I look her up and down. I can see her nipples standing out really prominently on her bikini top, and a dark stain between the legs of the bikini bottom. She’s blushing and absolutely adorable. I give into the temptation and lean over to kiss her. Her lips are very dry; her mouth probably is as well, and I don’t press too deep — tonsil hockey would likely just intimidate her.

But our lips press, and I can taste her — and then suddenly she goes a bit wild kissing me, and her hand reaches out and squeezes Darcy’s left tit really roughly, and I can feel her breath flare out of her nostrils in rapid bursts, and see her legs squirm under the table. I break liplock with her as she finishes her orgasm, vaguely afraid she’s going to bite me. She doesn’t, but she does pull me forward and my cock pops out of Darcy.

The waitress laughs as Leah writhes and gasps. “You did warn me she was going to be intense. I’ll take you at your word from now on.”

I wonder if this is disappointing to Darcy, but she sounds like she enjoyed watching it happen, at least. I also wonder if Leah’s going to be up for more — but one look in her eyes tells me all I need to know. “I want you, Marcelo,” she almost begs. “I want both of you.”

Darcy and I take a second to reposition ourselves. Darcy stands up and turns around, and I stretch to get the blood flowing. Glancing briefly at the concave mirror, I see our voyeurs are quiet, polite and absolutely transfixed. Leah glances more directly, giving them a shy little smile before dissolving into nervous giggles. I find the aroused-but-coy look on her face so achingly erotic I need a mantra to not pop off right then and there.

“Get on the table,” I tell Leah.

I’m not being dominant, or even bossy — I don’t peg either of these girls as submissives, or being into power dynamics at all. While I love the encounters I had dominating Cathy and Livia I also pride myself on adapting to my partners and crave variety and novelty — I’m ready for something that feels different. But Leah is inexperienced and almost dazed, and it’s just going to be awkward if Darcy and I don’t give her clear suggestions.

We do get her up on the table, but facing the opposite direction — on her back, with her head dangling off the edge like Darcy’s legs were before. It would be a wonderful position for a blowjob, but I don’t really want one of those from an inexperienced lover — I’d rather eat her and fuck her, and have Darcy (who’s clearly not at her first rodeo) go down on me if anyone does.

I slide my hand behind her back and start unfastening her bikini top. She looks insecure for a second, but doesn’t stop me. I get it off, and appreciate the results. Her tits are really tiny, but they work on her frame, complementing it, and her nipples are both quite large and very hard. I brush one with the back of my hand, and she squirms. “Ooh,” I say. “Your nipples are very sensitive. That’s so erotic.”

“You like my breasts?”

“Your breasts are adorable,” I tell her — quite truthfully. Even as a breast man that likes bigger girls, I do sincerely enjoy her exposed chest with her frame and demeanor. “But,” I tell her, “men rehearse compliments. So you should never trust a guy you’re in bed with when he tells you something. Instead, make him prove how he feels.”

And, with that rather glib excuse, I lean down to suck on her left nipple, feeling its texture against my lips and flicking it with my tongue. And she’s really responsive to that — she’s very horny, but we might only be her third or fourth lovers, and probably her best to date. She’s waited for this, so she’s probably really sensitive and responsive all around. And my intuition tells me her second orgasm will not be her last of the night, not by a long shot. Darcy grins at me and leans down to attack the other nipple.

Darcy’s lips pursed around Leah’s erect nipple is just an amazing visual to me, and it helps that Darcy is looking at me and doing a thing I can only describe as grinning with her eyes. Any insecurities Leah felt about her chest evaporate in waves of pleasure. I slide my hand down and flick her clit playfully with my hand, test her wetness, feel her pussy and slide a finger in. Wow, she’s tight, and her hard clit feels great brushing against my palm. I want to keep working on her like this for a while, but I can tell she’s going to orgasm again right away.

And then Darcy and I hear a terrifying sound — the ringing of a bell. The entry bell by the door. Isn’t it past closing time by now? Well, we certainly haven’t given Darcy any time to lock the place up! A new, vaguely preppie-looking couple walks in — mid-forties, matching knit sweaters, khakis, very prim. Darcy and I look up in shock. Leah’s eyes go wide, and she gets very vocal in blending a scream of panic with a loudly orgasmic moan.

For a few shocked seconds, the preppies stare at us. No one says anything, except for Leah — who is very vocal, but making guttural sounds I won’t even attempt to transliterate. The two preppies evaluate what they are seeing, turn heel and walk right back out without a word. I don’t want to sound cruel to Leah — I am as scared as she is, even if my confidence means no one sees it — but in retrospect, this is fucking hilarious. It really adds something how she’s kicking and swinging her legs around wildly in orgasm as everyone else is just frozen. I wish we had video of it that I could rewatch when writing this (and for other reasons), but sadly not every extremely kinky moment in my life is on film — just most of them.

Leah struggles to get up. I help her to her feet, and keep a firm hold on her until the orgasm finishes. Then she squirms away from me and darts into the ladies’ restroom, the folksy spring-loaded door to the washroom corridor swinging back and forth behind her like the entry-doors of a stereotypical Old West saloon.

Darcy and I share a glance. Darcy turns to face the remaining few patrons, a hand covering her ample chest. “Show’s over, fellas, and it’s closing time. I’d appreciate it if you’d make your way out in an orderly fashion. Quickly.”

I admire her poise, in the circumstances. I do this kind of insane shit for a living, but for Darcy it’s a one-off lark.

The bikers and the radio nerd leave with due haste and wide smiles. I’m actually pleased by the respect they show as voyeurs — in stark contrast to the final, mean Summers crowd, there’s no contempt or entitlement here. Everyone’s just grateful they got a bit of spontaneous eye candy, and able to be decent about it in response.

Darcy locks up the diner quickly, and I grab a second condom from my discarded jeans before we follow Leah into the Ladies’ Room. I’ve never fucked in a Ladies’ Room before. I’ve done it in a Men’s Room with a punk rocker, and twice with waitresses (separately) — but the Ladies’ Room is much nicer for this kind of thing, and looks more hygienic.

Leah is shivering, cowering and masturbating. As soon as she sees us, she runs over to me and hugs me tightly. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “They didn’t see you clearly, and —”

She kisses me passionately and without reservation — this time her mouth is fully open, and I have no uncertainty about exploring it with my tongue.

“Put it in me,” she demands. “I can feel my heart pounding. Put it in before the adrenaline wears off!”

I crush her to me again for a few seconds, until I can feel the pounding heart myself. That — and watching Darcy slide fingers in and out of her coppery bush in my peripheral vision — is enough to get me moderately hard again fairly quickly, and my cock brushing against her pale outer thigh helps too. I quickly slip off the condom I penetrated Darcy with and roll on a clean one.

“You know,” I tell Leah sagely, “if you fuck in a bathroom there are some positions you are contractually required to try out.”

So I lead her into one of the stalls and sit on the toilet, and then I sit her down on my lap, in a kind of seated reverse cowgirl. She giggles. I rub her pussy a bit. I’d like to rub it a lot, spend time teasing her and exploring her body gradually — but the lady did just articulate a fairly sensible reason why she wants it as soon as possible.

I do enjoy the feel of her wetness, though, just long enough to get really hard. I spread her legs, and position them against the corners of the stall. Then I gently work it in. She’s quite tight, so I’m careful. It feels wonderful, though, and I do take a moment to just appreciate that. Her utterances defy transcription in the Latin alphabet, but definitely suggest that she’s having fun too.

The stall door is open, and I can see us in the mirrors by the row of sinks. Leah looks so beautiful with her pale body and her flat chest and erect nipples and jiggling baby fat, and even hotter with my cock sliding gently inward and back out between her legs. I’m not so much pumping as grinding, and swiveling my hips, to move my cock in and out of her.

She’s gentle one second and then gets really wild the next, nearly animalistic, and her tidy bobcut hair bounces around when she thrashes in a way that’s paradoxically both adorable and visceral. She’s one of the girls who bites her lower lip when she gets pleasure, too, and I doubt she does it because anyone told her how cute and evocative it is. It’s just natural to her, and that really works for me.

Now, I’ve only been working her for a minute or two — a very evocative minute or two, but still. I am already entranced by the feel of her, and the visual in the mirror. And then Darcy steps in front of the stall, and the visual heat goes up further than I could have imagined. She’s wildly aroused, and unashamed of that. She’s leggy and nude, standing with her feet about a yard apart, two fingers vigorously pumping in and out as a third works her clit.

And she’s staring at me and Leah, and I Eyefuck her back, and I swear to god her whole body seems to tremble when I give here the Eyefuck cues that I’m thrusting into her just like I am for real into Leah. Her mouth is open slightly, her hair is erotically disheveled and she’s just eating the two of us with her eyes, as she slowly walks toward us. I can see her magnificent breasts, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin. And it gets still better!

Darcy reaches the doorway and gets down on her hands and knees. I’d never quite realized until this moment how magnetic the submissive crawling thing has become to me, ever since the night I first met Livia and she used it on me. She licks one of Leah’s nipples as she moves downward, then does something to her navel that I don’t see, but it makes her vagina clench so good I have to use the blood flow mantra not to shoot off. But the navel isn’t her real destination, obviously.

She takes a deep breath and exhales it directly onto Leah’s clit, and I feel Leah’s reaction to this directly. Then she goes to work with her lips and tongue, gently but decisively, on that hard little pebble. I don’t see it directly, of course, but I know exactly what’s happening. The wonder of this gently swiveling position in contrast to a harder pounding is that Leah’s body is relatively stationary, and Darcy can actually eat her at the same time I go in and out.

Leah doesn’t last long. When I feel she’s getting close, I take my hands up off the cubicle walls, and trace them from Leah’s hips up her body to cover her chest, where I flick the nipples with my palms for that extra little bit of stimulation. Leah comes — either her third or fourth of the night, I’m not sure — and she screams, really loud. And she clenches, and it’s really nice for me as well. Too nice, in fact. “I’m going to come,” I tell both girls.

“Pull out,” Leah gasps softly.

That’s hard for me to do in this position, but it’s not a problem. Darcy pulls me out and grips me tightly with her hand, slipping the condom off with the other. I put one hand protectively over Leah’s pussy — with the condom off, I don’t want my cum to get on it. I look down, and Darcy grins up at me. “Go on,” she says. “Ah know what boys like, where you want to spray it. Paint my face. You’ve earned it.”

Well, I sure do. Given my cock is in her hand, I don’t actually have any real volition in the matter — not that I’d protest anyway. Ropes of cum shoot out of my cock and splatter her face and hair. One sticks to her cheek. Another gets in her left eye, and I feel her wince. Others cling to her forehead and lodge in her hair. Well, she was aiming the gun here, so to speak. She stands up and looks me directly in the eyes. She has a playful and mock-offended look on her face. My god, she looks ravishing with my cum on her face and a flirty smirk in her eyes.

“You are a very bad man,” she says chastisingly. “You got it in my eye.”

“Ow. Sorry. Really.”

I don’t get any real anger from her, though, or even annoyance. She does hurry over to the bathroom sink to clean up, though. Livia is special, and way off the norm for girls, in actually liking cum on her face. Darcy is more normal — she gets off on flirting, and wants to please guys when they please her, but the actual cum is somewhere between vaguely neutral and gross to her. And of course, it stings in her eyes.

“Wow,” Leah says. “That looked so dirty.”

Her tone is more awed then negative, though.

It occurs to me, though, that despite the comment about earning it we haven’t really satisfied Darcy. So I help Leah to her feet and make sure she’s stable to walk after the power orgasm. She’s speechless, and firmly grips the coat-hook on the stall door to hold herself up.

I walk over to a sink beside the one Darcy’s using to clean off her face and wash out her eye. I wash my hands very thoroughly, using the soap dispenser by the sink. Then I walk up behind Darcy as she’s just about finished cleaning her face, and wrap one arm around her waist. “You know,” I tell her, “I did really like decorating your face a great deal — but you said I earned it, and I feel that wasn’t quite true. Don’t worry, though — I’m about to, for real. If you score a threesome, there’s no way your only orgasm should come from your own hand — though I really liked watching that, too.”

I slide my cleaned, moist hand between her legs. She squirms slightly, but doesn’t resist. I cup her pussy, rub it, trace the lips with my fingers. It’s still engorged and moist. Her clit is getting firmer against my palm as I work. She’s a two-finger kinda lady, so I start with that, curling the finger to reach for the G-spot. Her eyes close, and she starts breathing. Once we get a tempo going, I bring in my other hand, using the fingers to flick the clit as I finger her.

At this point, Leah comes up behind me just as I am behind Darcy — a kind of girl-boy-girl sandwich. I can feel her nipples press into my back. The point of this, though, seems to be so she can reach around me and feel up Darcy’s tits, which Darcy seems to appreciate and I greatly enjoy watching in the mirror. Finally, I ask Darcy, “Are you enjoying this, or do you want me to go a bit harder and faster?”

“Ah’m enjoyin’ it a lot,” she tells me with a smile, “but Ah don’t want you to go a little harder and faster — Ah wannit whay harder and faster, if’n yer into that.”

So I increase the pace gradually as long as she seems to still be enjoying it, until I’m absolutely pounding her pussy with my fingers, jackhammering like you see in the more explicit pornos the way the more jaded pornstars seem to so adore. Her face is a mask of pleasure; her breathing very rapid and sharp, almost panting. “Look at her,” I instruct Leah. “Look at her face in the mirror. I’ve always thought men look silly when they orgasm, but women... that’s transcendent beauty right there, isn’t it? It’s like a vision. Appreciate it.”

I think from Leah’s face, she really does.

Darcy opens her eyes as the orgasm takes her and looks both of us in the eyes through the mirror. It really is amazing to watch her face as she comes. And I feel her thighs tremble around my hammering hands, and watch her with her mouth open, just overwhelmed. And then she sprays all over my hand and leaves a puddle all over the floor. “Ah’m sorry,” she says. “My body does that, when Ah get really excited.”

“Sorry?” I chuckle. “Are you kidding? If I’d known you could do that, I would’ve had my face stuffed between your legs so you could do to me what I just did to you.”

Everyone laughs.

“You did look beautiful,” Leah tells Darcy, “when you were... you know.”

Darcy laughs. “You looked right swelterin’ hot when you popped off, too.”

Leah just sits in the bathroom stall in blissful shock as I help Darcy clean up the diner. It’s 3 AM when we finish banging. I make sure to pocket the bill with Darcy’s number on it, both so I can keep in contact with her and so I can give Livia her number. I don’t ask Leah for a number — something tells me she won’t want to give it. For me and Darcy, this is a lifestyle. For Leah, it was a wild adventure and a dirty weekend, and she won’t want that haunting her when she goes back home. Discretion matters, after all.

Darcy drives us back to her apartment, and we come up to hang. She has some marijuana, and decides to share it with us, so we all take a toke. I’m usually very against any kind of narcotic — but I want to be with them, and don’t want to be the only one not high. And I am truly suffering from some deep stress in my life at this point, with my future with Livia up in the air and what happened with Valetti and so forth. I do need to unwind, and while the sex helped a great deal I’ve also heard that marijuana can be useful there. So as a very specific one-time indulgence, I decide to partake.

Predictably, the time we spend together is a bit of a blur and my memory of it is pretty hazy. There’s more sex. I believe I ate out both of the girls quite extensively, and Darcy ate Leah. I don’t think Leah gave anyone oral sex, which is fine — she might not be comfortable with it. I can’t actually remember if I managed to get Darcy to hose down my face like I had hoped for. The marijuana blanked that out, and that pisses me off enough that I won’t be using it again — I can be a bit OCD in my pursuit of sensualism, facials from girls are such a rare treat and I treasure my erotic memories greatly, reliving the best ones mentally fairly regularly. (This is partly why I can recite so many of them to you in so much detail, O Voyeuristic Reader, so many years later.)

More seriously, I remember getting some fantastic body-slamming sex from Darcy, but I can’t for the life of me remember if I put a condom on first — and that deeply terrifies me. I think I would have — it’s very much rote habit for me by now — but I can’t be certain. Nothing will come of it — given my lifestyle, I get tested really regularly, and I vaguely remember coming on Darcy’s back and Leah’s face — but it still makes me angry that I could possibly have made a mistake like that. All things considered, though, the drug probably does me far more good than harm at this specific and unusual point in my life.

We talk a lot, and chill, and while this is pretty speculative I think the three of us — three very different personalities linked only by the warmth of sexual intimacy — might have done something to heal and mature each others’ psyches. At the very least, I’m a lot less tense, and I think it plays a role in allowing me to compromise with Livia, and mend things with her, and just communicate better, in the final, amalgamated conversation that I recited in the previous chapter.

We crash, and sleep. We order pizza, and we all eat a lot. I have to really punish myself in the gym after this to keep my lovely abs. We spend about 36 hours in total, just holed up in Darcy’s apartment smoking, eating, fucking and chatting. I can’t remember most of the content, but I remember that it is a really nice time overall and a much-needed escape from my problems at the time.

I call the Trips on the second morning. This is a serious breach of etiquette — we all do hookups, but it’s usually an overnight to noon the next day thing, and we try to call each other if we’re going to be later than noon. Mimi is worried sick. Livia doesn’t show it, but she might have been as well. What we are in the process of learning about Oscar Valetti doesn’t exactly make my vanishing any calmer. I do apologize profusely to them, though, and admit I was stoned. Livia just nods thoughtfully when I finish. “It sounds like it was something you needed,” she says, “so I’m glad you were able to get it.”

And the empathy in her words gives me hope that things can be mended between us — and, a few weeks later, they basically are.

I do give Livia Darcy’s number. I’m not sure if they hooked up. There is a day or two when they could have before we left Daytona, and I hope they did — Livia with Darcy would be scorching, and I’m sure they’d both enjoy it. I never find out, though, because Livia and I aren’t communicating much in this period.

I call Darcy a few times in the future, but only after we’ve left Daytona. (I call her once when we’re in Daytona, but get an answering machine — she’s got a full-time job and busy social life.) We do chat briefly, but she isn’t much of a phone person — though she does always seem enthusiastic about another hookup. But the Trips never came back to Daytona, and once the show has wrapped up and I remember to give her a call, her old number is disconnected and — lacking Mimi’s services at that point — I have no practical way to track her down.

You might notice that a lot of my persistent contacts are college girls. There’s a reason for that, but it has nothing to do with sexual preferences. (Well, okay, it’s not only preferences.) Most of the hot forty-somethings I’ve known don’t use computer mail and aren’t interested in learning how to set it up. When their phone number changes, or you lose it... well, that’s all she wrote, folks. No more contact. Nothing but memories.

I never try to contact Leah. I do look her up on AOL years later, but never make contact. Her profile confirms exactly what I suspected — this was a one-time wild adventure for her, and a few months afterward she has a regular boyfriend, and by the time of this writing she has a husband, a kid and a doctorate. Well, good on her — but it’s obvious she doesn’t want her dirty weekend looking her up after the return flight, so I follow the basic bro-etiquette that what happens in Daytona stays in Daytona.

I do get to see Leah one more time before we leave Daytona, though only from a distance. She’s on the beach, and she’s drawing some kind of diagram in the sand, chatting eagerly as she explains something complex to other people her age — two boys and a girl. She’s animated and lively, extroverted and full of good cheer — the polar opposite of the dour, horny, withdrawn girl I first spotted her as. She glows. I’m with Livia and Mimi at the time, and I don’t go up and greet her — just watch for a minute or two.

But it uplifts me to see. Dark clouds part inside my psyche. It affirms beliefs I had been losing faith in. This is what sex can do to people, I think. It uplifts them. What happened to Sandra — that wasn’t sex, or even lust. We made mistakes, but nothing really that bad, and we could have fixed them if we didn’t live in a world with people like Oscar Valetti. And then the three of us keep walking, and Leah passes out of my line of sight, and out of my life, forever.

Kids, treasure your partners each and every time you get to fuck them. Unless you’re married, you never know if you’re going to get another chance. Some things in life are beautiful and amazing, but only happen once — and both Darcy and Leah fall into that category.

Now, I remember feeling an odd poignancy walking back to the Great Beast in the Daytona night after leaving Darcy’s apartment. This hookup was fulfilling, to be sure, but it was also the capstone of an era, a point of major but subtle life change for me. Much like with Leah and lesbian flirting, my unconscious mind caught on to things that my conscious mind willfully ignored: namely, that this has been my Last Great Pickup.

My life will certainly be full of astounding exploits of sexual debauchery and creative excess in the years to come — but nothing quite like the classical pickup. Just walking up to strangers, chatting them up and talking them into a wild threesome, and getting them to enjoy it every bit as much as I do. There are certainly girls between Daytona and Los Angeles — both solo ones and ones I share with Livia — but nothing that is quite as elegantly done, or as perfect a showcase of my philosophy, skills and former lifestyle as this one has been.

And, by the time we get to L.A., I’m a celebrity. Most of the encounters start with “Wow, you’re Marcelo Ambrose Knight, the famous Scandal host! Can I get your autograph on my boob?” or something similar. The elegance, the skill of the chase is gone — or at least different. Groupies and girls awed by a celebrity are cool in their own way, but it’s not really the same thing — it isn’t earned the way it is with a true stranger. In a way, it is the end of an era for me — and the beginning of a new one.

And, it is on this ambivalent note — simultaneously optimistic, melancholy, triumphal and nostalgic — that I shall leave you, O Loyal Reader. The saga of the Sexy Scandal Spectacular is far from over, however — make sure to pick up Getting (Away With) It, the second volume, at your local paperback retailer soon! In it you will read accounts of our next Escalation, our decadent lifestyles as rising celebrities, our entanglements with both a hedonistic, wealthy sorority and a decidedly quirky troupe of mud wrestlers, my spectacularly indulgent celebration of my thirtieth birthday and (as the name suggests) all the various obscene hijinks we perpetrate while staying one step ahead of any negative consequences by virtue of cleverness alone.

Miss it, and your genitals will never forgive you!