The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bimbos don’t angst.

The constant witty repartee, interspersed with Livia’s intensity and Mimi’s idiocy, built up a rhythm in my mind, a pulse that kept me constantly living in the moment, trying to stay two steps ahead of the conversation in my mind. Now it’s gone — Tempest and Audra have a backlog of tables before coming back, Livia and Mimi have left and I’m enjoying my sweet honeydew and cantaloupe balls with a quiet languor that begets introspection. Left alone in a void suddenly free of verbal fencing, my thoughts drift and Mimi’s words come back to me, letting me actually digest their meaning.

It’s... honestly a pretty striking concept. Everyone has mood swings, down days, self-doubt and bouts of depression (the normal, not clinical, kind) — except, apparently, our resident hypnotic bimbo. She can just look in a mirror, say a trigger word and make that all go away to live in a pink fuzzy haze of transhuman idiocy. The cynical part of me wants to say that’s an addiction, a downward spiral, destructive escapism — but Mimi has a ton of hats to wear in the Trips, and she seems to be exceedingly competent and reliable at all of them. It can’t be called an illness if it does no harm, can it? Besides, how many people still think ‘pickup artist’ is just a suave euphemism for a predator? I struggle with that all the time — I’m hardly in a position to judge others’ fetishes or lifestyles.

I’m still slowly gaining understanding of the bimboification fetish as a concept, trying to feel out what it means, what it implies — and why it appeals. Livia’s got a glib line she uses to summarize it to girls who don’t get it, apparently. “A bimbo is like any other kind of submissive, except she trades in the whips, knots, blindfolds, dungeons and electrostim for Versace shoes, tight dresses, excessive amounts of glitter and addictions to cute animals and the color pink. Does that really seem like such a bad deal?”

It doesn’t, honestly. I can see the appeal there — the mental bondage of idiocy to press the submissive buttons, but all wrapped up in a bubblegum pink motif more naturally appealing to girls than the hard-industrial sex-dungeon aesthetic.

Being taken advantage of is apparently part of the whole bimbo fetish — it’s not as obvious with Mimi because she’s a lesbian and homosexuality is often so subtle and hidden, but the rare few other hypno-bimbos out there are apparently... very easy to talk into sex by men, and enjoy that element of their kink both for the feelings of helplessness it causes and the fact that idiocy turns any would-be suitor into a charismatic dominant with a lot of power over her.

I know that sounds dangerous, O Nervous Reader, but it probably actually isn’t. I suspect it would have to work like any other kind of hypnotic command or imposed reality — if the subject stops being comfortable with whatever is happening, the trance breaks or the subject just mimes an action rather than actually doing it.

Mimi is apparently comfortable with a lot, however. She told me a story once about her visit to a sauna back in Surfer’s Paradise, during the time I was in training. She had made casual conversation with two other fit, short-haired thirty-something women — she didn’t say this, obviously, but I’m going to assume this was the other two women talking normally, and her throwing in her usual supply of inane comments to firmly establish her intelligence level to her new ‘friends’. Anyway, this trio ended their spa visit with a soak in the steam room — nude. The other two women apparently told Mimi that steambaths are great for losing weight and improving one’s figure — the more you sweat, apparently, the more weight you lose.

Mimi, of course, believed (and believes) this unquestioningly. She asked how to best achieve this, and one of the ladies told her that the formal ways are little exercises in the steam room — but there’s also an informal way, a kind of whispered sauna secret for a select clique of women that leads to far more rapid weight loss. I’m sure you can guess where this is going, right?

It’s apparently also etiquette, I heard, for the newest member of the sauna to patiently service all the others, in sequence, on her knees, before she gets any herself. So that’s exactly what Mimi did — she went down on two pretty, fit-bodied strangers voraciously, their bodies glistening with sauna-sweat, bringing them both to orgasm with her mouth and fingers before they double-teamed her to return the favor, all while operating on the belief that this was a weight loss technique.

Now, this would be horrifying in the abstract, but when Mimi told it as a story she spoke with the kind of soft eyes, awed tones and remembered arousal that one uses for a Best Sex Ever story — she was obviously over the moon about the whole experience. I have no idea if it actually happened naturally and for real, or if it was a hypnotic fantasy scenario Livia crafted for Mimi, or if Livia somehow set it up by suggesting it to the lesbian couple behind the scenes. I know Mimi enjoyed it profoundly, though, and I’ll admit that hearing her narrate the encounter with her high-pitched bimbo voice definitely made my jeans feel overly tight. It’s not Mimi’s only “taken for a ride in both senses” story, either.

Normally, I prefer smart women to dumb ones — though let me be honest, O Astute Reader: I’m a dog. If a bimbo has a great bod and is down to fuck, and it doesn’t seem to come from a place of low self-esteem or something else destructive... sure, I’ll bang the hell out of her. Good times! But, if it wasn’t obvious, I’m a lot more intrigued by the brassy Tempest than the sweet daddy’s girl Audra — whereas Livia is the exact opposite.

From whence did the ideal of the bimbo come? The word, I will later learn, actually dates back to the 1920s and originally referred to tough men, then became unisex, then dropped out of popular use — it’s recently come back big time, though, as a pejorative for dumb, pretty women. But it’s not the etymology that matters — it’s the archetype. I guess there have always been superficial women who got by on their looks, and jokes about their intelligence go back almost as far.

Jayne Mansfield codified the sexy, dumb blonde stereotype in pop culture, I think, with her appearance in Debonair and her later film career in the fifties and sixties. Much like Audra and Mimi, it was a cultivated image for her which brought with it fame and prosperity. As the blonde ideal became popular, however, there was of course backlash. Back in the sixties, posing for Debonair was genuinely prestigious for women. Feminists loathed this, seeing it as exploitation and degradation, and seized on the bimbo caricature of centerfolds as a way to fight against the magazine’s cultural impact. This conflict is not yet settled, though the feminists have gained a lot of ground since the sixties.

Our society teaches men to adore and desire women, but it also teaches women to loathe and revile men. The bimbo rejects that. Bimbos love men. Bimbos love cock in exactly the same way men love pussy. Hollywood feminists created the modern, pejorative image of the bimbo as a caricature, a cautionary tale, a figure of everything women shouldn’t be — which should be held in contempt and is thus the acceptable target of jokes.

But it is the nature of acting for a good actress to empathize with her character, and the ones who played the most iconic bimbos gave to them a kind of warmth, sincerity and simplicity that somehow won the sympathy of audiences male and female in spite of the social engineers’ intended narrative. When you watch Night of the Comet for the first time, you care when Sam dies, in a way you just don’t in a typical slasher film — she’s adorable, and unless you’re a feminist you have to admit she adds value to the world. Even if you can’t admire them, you find you want to see girls like Chrissy Snow and Holly Golightly succeed and be happy — if only because their happiness permeates through to the world around them.

Bimbos thwart the complex, paradigm-shifting webs of social theory and euphemism-laden Newspeak feminists craft by being too dumb to understand them. Bimbos love sex, because they don’t stop to think about all the reasons women are taught to think about that sex is gross and demeaning. If it feels good — physically or psychologically — no more complexity than that is needed.

These days, anyone who picks up an issue of Cosmopolitan can read articles categorizing, analyzing and deconstructing dating and relationships. The modern woman is pushed to analyze these things, and arguably to over-analyze them. The submissive woman, in particular, gets to see every little gesture and touch that most excites her labeled as a ‘danger sign’ or ‘red flag’ to show that any right-thinking woman should reject such a man. Stress is a natural byproduct.

Measuring up to the interpersonal ideals set by Cosmopolitan can be as taxing and self-destructive as measuring up to the physical ideals set by Debonair. Once you work that out, it’s not so surprising that some women find sexual liberation in freedom from thought, from analysis and categorization and the relentless, subconscious, cynical deconstruction that tears down all romantic ideals in the name of advancing esoteric, out-of-touch academic theories like feminism, Marxism and post-modernism.

Despite the appeal, however, it’s honestly also a complex fetish to actually live. A bimbo is not just a stupid woman, and it’s not even a stupid woman that can be easily taken advantage of — the bimbo may get off on the power dynamics of being taken advantage of, but that’s not the real point. Nobody thinks of inbred, obese Bertha the stereotypical redneck from Nebraska whose greatest claim to fame is her tragic attempt to trim her pubic hair with a lawnmower as a bimbo — a moron, sure, but not a bimbo. There is a requisite glamour inherent in the word that is just not there.

The life of a bimbo is, by definition, not gritty. The bimbo never suffers for not thinking — at least, not in non-kinky ways. A bimbo is a woman who doesn’t have to think, who can get away with not thinking and not suffer any negative consequences. The archetypal bimbo is Daddy’s Little Princess, but there’s no Daddy here. Livia fills Mimi’s Mommy role, I guess, but they’re not into incest so they don’t say it that way. If a bimbo isn’t a kept woman, she has to be pretty and sexy (and shrewd) enough to actually live off the societal favor that results from that — Julie Brown’s satirical bimbo anthem is harder to pull off in real life than you might think.

Regardless of the language used, however, a bimbo needs a... a minder, I guess, for the fantasy to work. It’s not just about being dumb; it’s about the subconscious feeling of security one gets from knowing one is allowed to be dumb, and that one doesn’t have to stress over a contrived plan to make next week’s paycheque cover both rent, bills and debt. Do that enough, cram for enough exams, and thinking itself becomes painful by negative association. The bimbo knows that as long as she’s a good girl, her roof and bills and shopping sprees will be taken care of. She’s pampered. It’s as inherent to the fantasy as being dumb. That’s appealing. It’s a kind of relaxation deep enough to soothe the fiercest neuroses.

I can understand that. Despite being from a rich family, I haven’t always been well-off — I’ve been the starving college student and even a couch surfer at times, after I offended my parents but before my first book hit it big. Bimboification doesn’t appeal to me, though. While I find dominant and sexually aggressive women sexy and enjoy occasional femdom-play, I’m not ultimately a submissive myself — I like wielding power more than I like being bound to it. It’s not just that, though.

A male bimbo is a meathead-jock; I know, as I’ve dealt with them. When you take the fantasy across gender lines, you get more implied violence, a world of thuggery and macho competition that simply doesn’t appeal to me. That, or you’re a sissy (really not my fetish) or “himbo” — a vindictive feminist joke at the expense of men everywhere, created by women horrified at the idea of bimbos and eager to retaliate against the perceived offense. Suffice it to say that himbos get none of the good treatment from any quarter of society that their female peers do.

The bimbo idealizes sex, and the hypno-bimbo does so very literally. To them, sex has no flaws; they’re all massaged away in a pink hypnotic haze of pleasure that by its categoric nature cannot be examined. The bimbo is a profound optimist possessed of an amped-up sex drive, unshakable confidence in her own ravishing beauty and a complete lack of inhibition in her own sexuality. I see that in Mimi, and I see the joy she takes in it, and it uplifts me — normally making me willing to put up with her more annoying behaviors in good candor even if, to men, she can only ever be a friend.

My contemplation of the bimbo nature is interrupted — I’m shocked out of deep reverie by the delicious duo as they set our bill on the table.

“Did your gal-pals ditch you?” Tempest asks, scorn and sympathy mixing in her voice.

“They had to leave early to take care of some preparations for our road trip,” I tell the girls. Both waitresses fail to fully cover expressions of delight at their absence. “They won’t be back, but I don’t have to join them right away.”

I’m at the centerpoint of a U-shaped booth. The two waitresses immediately sit down beside me, one on each side, in a manner I’m pretty sure was planned out and choreographed between them. I’m trapped, and I don’t mind one bit. I suspect they noticed Livia and Mimi were gone a while back, while I was thinking about Mimi, and hurried their other tables out of the way so they’d be free to come sit with me here.

Audra smiles at me. “That was a real great tip! Anyone ever told you that before?”

“Well,” I tell her with a sly smile, “not when referring to a payment.”

Tempest is skeptical. I feel her hand come to rest on my thigh, but it’s presence there doesn’t match her facial expression or tone of voice at all. “Why the sudden generosity?”

“Well,” I reply, “I’ve heard a rumor that if you leave a big tip for your waitress at a Remedial, she’ll sometimes give you a kiss in exchange. Since I already got the kiss — and since it was so nice — I figured I owed you the tip. Don’t worry, though — it’s just a tip. When I say ‘only the tip’, you can take me at my word.”

“You know,” Audra tells me, “we split the tips here, so we should probably split the earning of them as well.”

“It does seem only fair,” I agree.

Then she kisses me. It’s hot — she’s nervous, which is strange given that this is not her first rodeo; I get a thrill when I realize just how much she wants to play with me. Our tongues brush against each other, and she finally giggles and pulls away from me. She looks simultaneously adorable and naughty with her bubblegum pink lipstick smeared — and her nipples tenting her stretchy uniform top like crazy.

“You taste like bubblegum,” I tell her. “It’s nice.”

“You taste like raw sex,” she tells me back. “It’s nicer.”

Tempest clears her throat, interrupting our moment. She tucks the five twenties I tipped back into the breast pocket of my jacket on the coat-rack by our booth, along with the receipt. “Marcelo... we’re not making this transactional, okay?”

“Yeah,” Audra says. “You need to learn we’re here for more than just the tip.”

I give her a slight smile. “You don’t say.”

Tempest is acting angry, but there’s a subtle vibe here and it isn’t anger — more satire, perhaps? “You’re charming, Marcelo Ambrose Knight, but you need to learn a few pointed lessons about women.”

My glance lingers overtly on Audra’s chest for a second before I reply. “You mean like how to make women pointed?”

Audra giggles and covers her breasts with her hands, blushing.

“No!” Tempest snaps. “I mean in not treating women like objects, or as conquests to be won in a verbal sparring match.”

In contrast to Tempest’s sharp rebuke, Audra cuddles up close to me — and I feel her hand on my other leg. What can I say — chicks dig the tight leather pants.

“How have I treated you poorly?” I ask Tempest.

She puts on an exasperated look. “Really, Marc? You’re smooth, I’ll admit that, but everything you’ve said to us tonight has been hollow words in desperate pursuit of a cheap thrill.”

I’d put more stock in her sincerity if her hand didn’t slide around to grope my cock hard right as she said the words ‘cheap thrill’. Now, the thing about tight leather pants: they may look great, but they also affect blood flow. When you get an erection in them, it’s going to be a real rager — and there might also be some deep Freudian element of my psychology that really, really grooves on the concept of being felt up by a woman as she gives me a deeply ironic, condescending lecture. So, I get hard pretty rapidly and excessively in response.

Tempest’s hand slides past my groin and touches Audra’s. The petite blonde jolts slightly, and the two women’s gazes meet. “Temp,” Audra says in a very guarded tone. “Don’t do anything reckless you’ll regret later.”

I quirk an eyebrow at Audra, trying to soften her concerned scowl with a playful look. “Really? I think you’re being a bit unfair. Tempest doesn’t seem like the type to do anything that crazy or reckless. She’s just cultivating a persona. I can relate to that.”

Tempest is totally the type of girl to do something crazy and reckless, and just bought my dare-phrased-as-an-offhand-compliment hook, line and sinker. The two glance at each other, and Audra looks nervous — the words “I’m calling your bluff” might as well be written on Tempest’s face.

“You don’t know me, Marc,” Tempest scolds. “I don’t deal in these personas you’re so fond of. I’m an honest, down-to-Earth girl — what you see is what you get.”

Tempest tugs at my belt buckle, but can’t get it open — so she guides Audra’s hand right over it. Audra undoes it effortlessly one-handed, and Tempest slowly pulls down the zipper as she meets my gaze. “I was too forward in kissing you. I realize that now. Physical intimacy is something that needs to be grounded in understanding and deep emotion, Marcelo,” she chides.

“Without that basis, it’s just hollow. For women, there is no casual sex. All sex is emotion. Women can’t fuck just get our rocks off like men do — our soft little minds just aren’t capable of it. We need more. Get to know me a bit, take me out, show me that you’re serious and are there for the long haul. Once I feel more comfortable with you, then we can kiss again. You won’t need patterns or routines to get there.”

Tempest’s eyes glitter. She’s not just screwing with my head in a really sexy way — she’s satirizing all the ‘good girls’ she’s known that look down on anyone working at this kind of place. Audra’s hand, chill from holding a water pitcher, snakes into my boxers — and suddenly, I feel cool air on my hard cock as it springs free of its painful constraint.

Tempest’s hand wraps around my erection tightly and starts stroking. “Sweetie, you’ve got to be more sincere with women,” the only woman I’ve ever met who I truly think has put as many hours into rehearsing her canned openers as I have tells me. “Just be yourself, and you’ll find a girl that likes you for who you are.”

“I see,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“You need to understand that the girls that work at a place like this are really just like any other girls you might meet on the streets,” Tempest lectures. “The only place we’re some kind of wild sex maniacs is in your imagination, and in the fantasy Remedial sells. In real life, we’re boring normal people just like you, and it’s pretty demeaning for you to assume we actually want guys like you to hit on us at work. It’s a tough job, you know.”

It suddenly clicks with me — having listened to what I told them, Tempest and Audra worked out this satire-routine as a way to try out demonstrating value on me. Inwardly, I cackle in delight, though it doesn’t reach my face. They’re showing me their insight, cleverness and moxie — and boy, they’ve really hit it out of the park. This encounter is vividly etching itself into my memory. There’s no way I’m going to think of them as generic conquests or mix them up with other girls after this!

Tempest and Audra’s fingers are interwoven as their hands slide gracefully up and down my throbbing cock. We’ve all got these slight smiles tugging at our faces — it’s honestly a miracle no one’s busted up laughing yet. I glance around the restaurant — patrons seem absorbed in ogling one of the rollerblade waitresses, and the other waitresses are focused on their own customers. It really just looks like Tempest and Audra are chatting with (and probably upselling) me — no one could imagine the monkey business going on beneath our table.

Honestly, to a hypothetical watcher this must feel like a scene from a Hollywood rom-com — provided you keep the camera angled above the table, of course. If you don’t, it would be classified as a rather different kind of film really quickly. The idea, that it’s all Hollywood-wholesome from the table up, amuses and excites me intensely.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying for an apologetic tone. “I’ve worked so hard at making women enjoy it when I hit on them — sometimes I forget that no woman can really enjoy sex the way men do. I understand that now, and I’ll try to do better in the future.”

Audra giggles, delighted at my understanding and lampooning the cliché, but Tempest stays stern and stoic. “Can’t you see that your incessant desire to pick up women is rooted in your own feelings of inadequacy? You really only want a balm for your low self-esteem, so you tell yourself you’re taking pleasure in a physical act.”

No, no... I’m pretty sure I am enjoying a very real pleasure right now. I think she knows that, though — she stops stroking for a second to actually feel my cock, to appreciate its raw force and hardness and throbbing power. I look into her eyes; beneath the dripping, rich, kinky irony, I feel that in gripping my cock, she’s also touching a part of my soul. Other women have told me exactly what Tempest just did, but in utter sincerity. She knows that, and finds it as vacuous and hilarious as I do. Her satire hits me so hard I almost pop off on the spot. I think she senses that, though, and slows the pace a bit so she can get what she wants.

“You need to learn reciprocality,” she tells me. “Treat women with the same respect, dignity and candor you expect to be treated.”

Under the table, Tempest guides my hand under the elastic of her plaid skirt and panties. She’s already really wet, and it only takes me a second to slide first one, then two fingers between her slick, puffy lips. She grinds against my hand, clasping it tight with her thighs — and uses an ‘adjusting my posture to be more prim’ gesture above the table to cover the squirming.

I reach out my other hand to Audra’s pussy, and she hesitantly lets it in. She’s not as wet, but tighter — I get only the index finger in, and use my thumb to work her clit.

“So, have you learned your lesson?”

“I’m... learning,” I tell her coyly.

Audra grips the side of the table with a white-knuckled hand and bites her upper lip, struggling not to shout out or draw attention as an orgasm wracks her body. “Mmph!”

“We don’t have all day,” Tempest tells me in a dry sardonic tone.

“Then pick up the pace,” I quip back dryly.

She arches an eyebrow at my challenge, then grips by cock unusually tightly while keeping the movement slow and gradual — yet much more stimulating overall. Her sharp green eyes pierce me deeply. There’s real feeling there — pleasure, contempt, bonding in mutual rebellion against a staid monogamous morality, affirmation. I absently wonder how many months of cautious formal dating it takes most other people to get this kind of emotional connection. It’s not even like I did it, with all my charm and smarm — this is Tempest’s big show as much as it’s mine.

That’s certainly not her legal name or her birth name, by the way, but at this point if you try and tell me it’s not her real name we’re going to have a long and tendentious philosophical argument. She’s a tempest at heart — powerful, destructive, uncontainable, furious and passionate. Sometimes it’s pretty nifty to be a cliché, honestly.

“You know,” I tell her in a casual tone, “I think I’m just about ready to give you my answer. You might want to get a napkin ready... you know, to write it down.”

Audra is staring wide-eyed at me and Tempest, struggling not to bust up or freak out. She clearly doesn’t want to jinx whatever is happening that’s aweing and arousing her so. She still can’t believe we’re having this droll, casual conversation as we rub each other off under the table.

I erupt messily all over their hands. I’m not sure why it excites me so, the mental image I have of those perfectly manicured hands, long fingers and neatly painted nails smeared with my seed when I can’t even see it. A jet of my cum strikes the underside of the table so forcefully that it makes an audible hissing sound, and Audra flinches slightly.

I meet Tempest’s deep green eyes and make her shiver with Eyefucking, just a little bit, and beneath her sardonic stoicism I see her soul dancing. It’s enough motivation to send another huge strand of sticky cum spraying out. I can’t see it, but I can visualize the brilliantly white goo clinging to the bronze skin of her elegant wrist. I wiggle my fingers around inside her. There’s a distinct sheen of sweat on her luxuriously bronzed skin — on one hand, I hope no one notices it, but on the other I find it transfixingly erotic.

“You know,” I say in my best contemplative tone, “on giving it careful consideration I think that while your ideal of sincerity has some benefits I can also see some distinct points — data points, that is — that suggest some women find a more affected personality genuinely appealing. So I’m sorry, but I really can’t concede to your arguments.”

“Well, that leaves us in a bit of a sticky situation,” Tempest says. Her eyes sparkle, hoping I’ll bust up laughing. I don’t, though inwardly I’m cackling like a maniac. “Hopefully we’ll have another, uh... uh...”

Tempest’s orgasm is more subtle than Audra’s — she’s not a screamer, but she shakes her head very sensually, making her already flashy hair look even flashier and her silver hoop earrings swing about wildly. It reminds me of one of those shampoo commercials targeting women, where they try to imply the model is having an orgasm from how nice the shampoo feels. This time, though, instead of herbal shampoo it’s two fingers right up her wet cunt and a thumb on her clit while she’s in plain sight of both strangers and her oblivious coworkers.

Her faint gasping and panting is sublimely satisfying to me. Watching the brassy composure on her elaborately painted glamour-girl face fall apart at the literal wiggle of my fingers fills me with impish glee, like a child pushing over a really impressive Jenga tower in slow motion. It’s enough motive to send a final, delayed burst of spunk across her now-relaxed hand.

Tempest recovers with surprising speed. “As I was saying, hopefully we’ll have another chance sometime to persuade you of the error of your ways.”

I nod. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll cross paths again at some point in the future. This has been a memorable enough conversation, after all.”

Tempest nods. The girls’ hands slide away from me, under the table, and they covertly wipe them clean. “I do enjoy a good, vigorous debate with a true gentleman — a real rarity in this line of work, I must say. Wouldn’t you agree, Audra?”

Audra is dumbstruck into silence, though after a second or two she recovers enough composure for a breathy monosyllabic reply. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Tempest tells me with the false good cheer of a television spokesmodel, “in spite of our differences of opinion, I do hope you’ve enjoyed your first visit to Remedial — and I hope it won’t be your last!”

“Yeah,” Audra agrees, lacking Tempest’s glib eloquence.

Tempest brings her hands up to her face and gently licks the side of one. “Mmm,” she says as the duo get up to walk away. “Caviar.”

I get out of the Remedial with the jacket I came in wearing around my waist to cover any embarrassing stains and drive away in the Crimson Lady. When I get back to the Great Beast, the crib is locked as Livia promised it would be. It’s only on Monday when we’re on the road that I take out the bills in my jacket pocket and notice the written note on the receipt Tempest returned to me.

“You apparently owe Audra a debt. Chumps pay up with bills. Studs pay up with their tongues and their cocks. I have a shovel for welchers, too. When you’re ready to cover your debt, call me at 555-343-2323 and Audra at 555-453-8734...”

I do call — just not right away. To jump ahead a bit, we have Spring Break shows that dominate our time, and after that... well, I’ll get there, but let’s just say I’ve got other things on my mind at that point. But I call Tempest and Audra when I have time, and I flirt with them, and I get to know them. And phone sex happens — raunchy, creative phone sex. Later, we get fancy phones and I’m able to talk to them both at the same time, and I convince them to both act out a phone sex threesome with me — and to describe getting interactive with each other. And they do. It gets pretty heated, and it’s all safe and imaginary, so they feel comfortable exploring ideas and imagery well outside the bounds of the heterosexual.

I talk with them in ways that aren’t lewd as well. I do manage to convince Audra that her guru is a fraud, which is nice — she gives me his name, Mimi and I do a background check and I read selections off his rap sheet to Audra. She’s still a hippie — shrewd in some ways and a ditz in others, just like most people — but it’s good that she no longer has a predatory influence in her life. Livia’s lust for her was apparently as transitory as it was intense — an odd mood more than an obsession — as she’s only minimally interested in hearing about the duo after the fact, though she enjoys trading the bedroom stories as has become our custom.

Livia does get in touch with Remedial Corporate — a contact that proves to be very useful to the Trips much later in my story — shortly after Spring Break. An agreement is worked out where she and I get a bunch of uniform tops in our sizes, and Remedial gets the rights to advertise with the photos Tempest took of her — an arrangement that ends up being very generous to them once we get more famous.

A month later, I hear they’ve actually tried some of the things we did in phone sex — with other guys, and just with each other. So, not so totally straight — but I’m glad I didn’t push it that first day back in the Savannah Remedial.

It turns out I had Tempest dead to rights with the status indicators thing. She does in fact meet nursing students who pretend to be surgeons (and many similar variations) weekly — those are usually the guys she ends up taking home (and makes a pretty penny in so doing), she confesses to me, because she likes the prestige-fantasy. Then she feels bad, since they disrespect her by deceiving her — she can spot their lies, but doesn’t call them out because that would ruin the fantasy. So I got a pro bono public handjob and her real number by giving her the fantasy without the deceit. Pretty good deal, really.

Shortly after this, real life concerns pull Tempest and Audra apart for a period, and we stop talking for a time. But that’s not the end of their role in my life story, O Intrigued Reader — you can expect they will show up again, likely when you least expect it.

It’s the day after the Remedial visit that I finally reach my big, probably dumb but certainly adventurous life decision. I walk into a Bank of America branch, set up an appointment, and by the end of the day have my life savings — 82,000$ US — in a metal briefcase. Yes, I have savings. Er, had. My first book might have paid two years’ rent (and led to two years of lazy indolence), but the dividends of my second went right into the bank; I knew I needed structure and I had grown up enough to have a modicum of discipline with the money by the time of the second book, and was smart enough to keep doing casual paid writing and other work, as well as saving up back when I was under my family’s thumb working yuppie-shit office jobs.

I tell Livia about it, and drop the funds into the Trips kitty. We don’t use banks much, apparently. That seems fishy to me at first, but Livia teaches me a lot about how banks and credit card companies discriminate against porn actors and other forms of adult entrepreneurs like us. I go over papers with her and sign contracts in triplicate, formally becoming a Sexy Scandal Spectacular investor. I’m honestly a bit intimidated by how much more she knows about finance than I do.

Regardless, I’m committed to Livia’s erotic-artistic vision — in it to win it. This life is what I want more than anything. I know the origins of Livia’s startup capital, I’ve seen the power of her methods and I know our working relationship won’t explode due to politics, jealousy or narcissism — the kind of bullshit that always ends up killing promising rock bands (Prismatic Horizon included) and other such creative endeavors.

I am no longer merely a pickup artist — I am Marcelo Ambrose Knight, the Lord of Seduction, co-host of the Sexy Scandal Spectacular. And I’m starting to believe, as Livia does, that if we take big risks, the Trips can hit some deep psychosexual nerve and hit the big time, becoming a name people will say in the same sentence as Debonair or James Bond when talking about pop-culture sexuality.

Walking out of the bank I feel amazing, full of energy and optimism. I have consciously committed to a new life, and for a man whose deepest drives are almost entirely carnal it is pretty much the best career path one could possibly imagine.

Two days later, I feel decidedly more uncertain — though, as always, I never show a trace of it to my new partners. Do you know how much a stuffed elk head mount with intact antlers costs? Turns out, in one specific case, about eight thousand dollars. Hostess Central had one of those, you see, right above their big staff doors. It’s the kind of thing a country club would have, you know? It was there in your mind, in your visual image of the place even before I mentioned it, wasn’t it? Well, this was a weird, rare one — Merriam elk are a subspecies that are apparently extinct now, and that sucker was a hundred and sixty years old. Shanice hit it with a blueberry pie. Turns out those things are not machine washable, unfortunately.

The real bitch is, Livia and I quietly agree it would almost be worth it if we had it on film to use as a comedic cutaway gag. A normal elk head, at least, not one of these fucked-up Merriam ones. We don’t, of course — why the fuck would we have a camera pointed at the elk head? Our camera guys have libidos and were given specific instructions to follow the sexy but make sure to get the reaction shots too. Elk heads were not on their itinerary. There’s also close to a thousand dollars worth of other miscellaneous pie damages. We anticipated there could be some, but not at that level. Kids, don’t throw gunge at anything made of hardwood!

We agree to pay it, though; there’s no real debate. The Hostess Central guys are really decent, sending detailed documentation of the antique appraisal and photos of the damages, and giving us several months to pay up with no talk about lawyers or blustery threats. We want to respect our venues and be known as a classy show. That’s pivotal — like with the makeup kits, it’s one of the things that separates Debonair from Club International. We really want to be on the Debonair side of that equation. Still, I can’t help but feel a queasy twinge in my stomach, knowing that we just spent ten point nine percent of my life savings on a pie fight.

Livia says that the Spring Break shows could be our breakout, leading to truly fantastic wealth. I’m a bit more guarded — honestly, she’s charismatic but the scale of her dreams inspires more skepticism than her charisma does hope — but I do hope they’ll be our turning point into at least breaking even and turning a steady profit. Regardless of whether you take her wildly ambitious outlook or my more realistic expectation, however, Spring Break will be absolutely critical. It’s less like, well, the way everyone else enjoys Spring Break and more like a very high-stakes college entrance exam graded entirely on sex appeal, showmanship and chutzpah.

No pressure, you know?

Mimi excitedly gathers us all together in the AV room. She’s delighted, almost vibrating in place, as she tells us the news: the World Wide Web is collapsing! Now, if you’re anything like me, you’re probably thinking: what the fuck is a World Wide Web, and does it have anything to do with those terrifying Australian funnel-web spiders that jump on your face when you’re sleeping and try to suck out your ocular jelly? No, apparently, the World Wide Web is (or was) a tech-nerd thing. It was supposed to be the next big leap in computer technology: one big, world-wide computer network accessible even to the tech-illiterate though graphical “web browsers,” to replace the many distributed BBS networks.

It was the brainchild of this douche-nozzle, Tim Berners-Lee, who died in a car crash about a month back. None the less, it had been moving forward rapidly, with these so-called “web browser” terminals being set up at sixteen major universities. Tech-speculators said that it might see mainstream use within the next two or three years. Now, though, there’s a sudden reversal — ISPs are dropping support for the HTTP protocol, or actively blocking it, due to opposition from commerce groups, NGOs and governments due to technical problems, a national security advisory and bandwidth concerns. BBS operators and the Backbone Cabal are apparently celebrating the event — the preservation of their world and their way of life by protecting it from being forcibly mainstreamed and commercialized.

I can’t really claim to understand the zeitgeist of this subculture, but if I’m to speculate I’ll compare it to the attempted cleanup of Times Square — a failed moralist crusade to purge all the go-go bars, sex shops, peep shows and adult theatres by means both legal and illicit. I donated a surprisingly large sum of money to the protests against that last year (before I knew how badly my pickup workshop prospects were collapsing), and I was glad to see it defeated: 42nd Street is among the most vivid and real places in New York City, and its loss would have been a loss to the culture of the world.

Besides, how could those hypocritical assholes claim to be cleaning up the filth when they left that unholy spigot of radical left-wing propaganda — the headquarters of the New York Times — untouched? No shock-value grotesquerie shown in an adult theatre or peep show could ever rival that rag in terms of capacity for sheer moral degradation.

Mimi’s delighted and relieved that her weird, convoluted playground is staying an invite-only club — she’s definitely got a strand of that stereotypical hacker elitism; she even spells the word ‘elite’ with numbers in it. No, I don’t know why — inside joke, I guess. I bring up Times Square, though, because Mimi has been slowly teaching me about the strange world of BBSes, ASCII art, door games, NetHack and FidoNet — and it definitely reminds me of Times Square in the 70s: deeply sleazy, but also vividly alive and populated by tight-knit groups of eccentric people passionate about their interests.

Now, you could say this has a lot of different implications — positive and negative — for the world’s social, cultural and technological development. It’s likely not objectively a good or bad thing — but for us personally, it’s fantastic. What it means for the Trips is that hot college babes can get their jugs out on our stage, and we can tape it, and we can distribute tapes and videos to a wide collection of eager, tech-savvy perverts, dirty old men and curious young women — but it’s all still a shadowy, immaterial realm as far as the professional world is concerned.

You can embarrass yourself on our stage, and it won’t destroy your life. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, because the long-distance charges for BBSes add up too quickly for gossip to cross municipal borders. Unless you’re a “phreaker” — a hacker that can get illicit, free access to long-distance phone services — like Mimi, that is. If you are, you can listen in on local electronic gossip worldwide — something that gives us an unprecedented information edge in running our show.

When a wet t-shirt contest we will run (not at the coming Spring Break, but substantially later) turns spontaneously into a no-t-shirt contest, and then a lesbian live sex act contest, lots of people are going to get to see the stacked coed cuties get busy with each other — but it’s not going to get back to their parents, or their thesis supervisor, or their local pastor — or show up on the background check when they apply for a management position at a large corporation. As long as they use fake names, the chances of anyone being identified are infinitesimal. That’s an awesome thing for both voyeurs and the exhibitionists we so adore.

Nobody would ever guess that “Dream” with the big flappy ones and the bitchy attitude was actually aspiring analytical chemist Clara James Cromwell from Topeka, Kansas. Well, unless Dream decides to express her displeasure at not winning by sucker-punching Mimi in the face, calling Livia a washed-up kike ho-bag and threatening to have her (almost certainly imaginary) black boyfriend Ike ass-rape me with a switchblade. Then people might figure out who she was, because her full name would end up in someone’s tell-all memoir. But all the other girls are safe, at least.

As far as most executives, administrators, Yuppies and authority figures are concerned, the Internet is a realm for loser tech-nerds and weird perverts, far away from anything of significance to real life. And that’s exactly the way we hope it will stay, too.

As planned, we get to Fort Lauderdale a week before Spring Break proper. We have to park the Great Beast in a stowing yard a good distance from the focal party areas. We get rooms at a cheap hotel near Summers on the Beach, and drive everything we will need for the next Escalation down to our rooms. Traffic is incredibly languid, but we don’t mind. It’s a fun ride, given that everyone in the vehicle is a voyeur and once we’re locked and loaded we all agree to go for a long stroll down the beach.

Even in the windup days before Spring Break proper starts, Lauderdale is glorious — a resplendent tribute to American hedonism. As the three of us stroll through the city, we see breakdancers performing in the streets and colorful buskers hawking wares. We see the leather-clad motorcycle clubs ride through the streets in long processions. We see rich kids cruising the streets in Lamborghinis. We see portly cops chase mischievous teens across the beach. We see skateboarders and rollerbladers perform elaborate, athletic stunts before cheering crowds. We see drunk revelers pissing in the streets, shop-fronts with elaborate eyecatch gimmicks and people hired to advertise walking about wearing old-style posterboard signs like a uniform. The greater portion of the ads all use some kind of sex appeal. We see planes drag signs through the sky on three separate occasions — “I love you, Danielle Lombard! Call Kevin!”

I hope Danielle takes that well, else Kevin’s life will be super awkward from now on. “Come Bare As You Dare Party at the Button Lounge!”

Sounds fun. Wish we had time to go.

But most of all, we see bikinis. So many bikinis. And the women inside them... my god, what a cavalcade of all-natural (well, mostly natural), corn-fed American pulchritude. Where there aren’t bikinis, there are tight jeans, flimsy cotton tops and that ubiquitous, sultry come hither look — and in many cases a notable absence of bras. It’s a seething ocean of flesh — tanned, taut and ready. We see bodybuilders lifting two bikini-clad beauties in each hand before a cheering crowd of onlookers. We see girls rub suntan lotion on their close friends’ bodies with an achingly intentional sensuality, a blatant and brazen flaunting of glistening flesh. We see a gang of coeds organize a bikini twister match on the beach. And there’s no cool professionalism or distance in the air at Fort Lauderdale; it is a panorama drenched in the haze of raging teenage hormones.

We know the local authorities take an active disinterest in enforcing public nudity statutes. We see girls come out of the heaving waves on the beach having “accidentally” lost their bikini tops at least three times in one day. (It’s a good game, for a hot young lady that wants some attention without actually getting naked — they come up from the water covering and try to avoid showing anything, then ask a handsome man for help. It captures every male eyeball in the vicinity, and sometimes the cuties mess it up and you get a glimpse of their wave-stiffened nips anyway.)

We see catfights that somehow always seem to end up with lost bikini tops. We get full-on flashed fairly regularly, and every new pair thrills me inordinately. We watch a gang of teenage boys long-toss ice cubes at the backs of sleeping bronzed sunbathers with untied bikini tops, shocking them into standing up and giving the whole beach a lovely eyeful. We see a boy drop his ice-cream cone down his girlfriend’s ample cleavage — and then we see her reach in, scoop it up and lick it from her fingers, letting the boyfriend join in the delicious treat with a knowing smirk.

You’ve probably seen the gag about a dog being trained to steal a sleeping woman’s bikini in T&A comedies like Hardbodies, Blue Hawaii and Malibu Beach. I would never have expected it to be based in fact, but either it is or some ambitious horndog saw the same movies we have and put in the effort to defictionalize it. We do, in fact, see this tragic but titillating fate befall two gorgeous young sunbathers hoping to avoid those pesky tan lines. Later, we hear a pair of cops discussing it — apparently, there’s more than one dog on the beach doing this now; the perfidious crime has inspired its own copycats.

At the Sandbar, Mimi and I watch from the audience as Livia, clad in a neon magenta spandex one-piece, is hefted aloft like a human barbell in an impromptu bodybuilder competition — a whole row of hot, oiled, hairless muscle-studs wait patiently in line to hold her one-handed above their heads. She poses in midair like there’s a solid surface under her, fluffing out her glamour-girl hair playfully with both hands. As each metaphorical suitor lowers her back to the ground, she hugs him tight and kisses him on the cheek — drawing jealous glares from the scrawnier guys in the audience and scornful comments from the girls. She doesn’t care — unlike the other girls doing this, she’s not long-suffering, professional or even coquettish. She’s openly thrilling in being touched and held aloft by so many men of such Herculean proportions.

The custom van craze of the prior decade is not yet dead in Fort Lauderdale. The van enthusiasts — aging hippies and mid-thirties Lotharios alike — cluster along the beach boulevard like it was a trailer park. The mosaics and custom paint jobs on the vehicles look like heavy metal or psychedelic album covers, imitations of Boris Vallejo and Julie Bell, fake grindhouse movie posters for films that never actually existed or tributes to their goddess Barbarella. (Myself, I thought the film was hot when I first saw it; these days, though, I can’t think anything but ‘treasonous cunt’ when I see ol’ Hanoi Jane — but I suspect these guys are lefties, and thus don’t give a fuck. That’s oddly depressing.)

Several van-dudes with bushy grey beards want to meet me, being interested in old-school pickup with the vibe of sexual liberation in place of manipulative predation. I sign autographs and give a brief lecture on approaches. A bunch of guys show me the shag-carpeted, psychedelic pickup cribs in the backs of their vans — but none of them hold a candle to Livia’s. I suspect having a pretty van is an unofficial license to be a squatter here, and I can see how it’s a symbiotic relationship — how their vehicular art makes the boulevard all the more enticing and exotic to the younger crowd.

We see a trio of shapely young revelers wearing over-sized plastic sunglasses on their chests as novelty bikini tops. When a guy they consider cute walks past them and raises his sunglasses to stare, they’d playfully raise their own “sunglasses” in unison, flashing their pert, insouciant little breasts back. They always rabbit when anyone tries to actually walk fully up and talk to them, though. After watching their routine twice, I decide to give it a try myself — I walk past, flip up my sunglasses and engage in a little playful Eyefucking.

I get quite an eyeful in exchange — being daring, I walk close enough to make out hard nipples. Bystanders cheer me on, though some also laugh or jeer. Livia tries next, getting some Ray-Bans and clad in her tight magenta one-piece. The girls giggle and blush fiercely, but give her a nice show from fairly close up. Nice — after Remedial, I’m glad Livia at least gets some boobies at Lauderdale! I strongly suspect it’s the first time a woman has dared their charms in public — I’m not sure if they’d go further, but they seem to enjoy the faintly scandalous nature of flashing a fellow lady. Sadly, we never get to properly meet them beyond this. Their naughty game has rules and boundaries, and we respect that.

It’s like a carnal carnival. Every time I see an especially gorgeous bikini-clad lady walk past, my heart skips a beat and I hope for some contrived and bizarre circumstance to set in to separate her from her clothing, scanty as it is, before she passes out of my line of sight. This occurrence is just common enough that my hope cannot be dismissed as mere frivolous fantasy — yet also rare enough to be achingly frustrating. There is sexual danger in the air, an almost tangible cloud of lust stoked by the idea that any given article of clothing can just spontaneously disappear at any given time for the most ridiculous of reasons.

And the women don’t seem threatened or terrorized by this; their spirits are as high as those of their male counterparts! Remember, O Nostalgic Reader, this was before any of the media scare stories about ill fates befalling drunk girls on Spring Break. The difference between the post-MVTV era Spring Break and what we are experiencing can be summarized very simply: the girls are genuinely carefree. It is a lark for them, and it is amazing for us. I am in my own personal, sweaty-palmed Heaven — lost in a haze of persistent visual sexual excitement and ambient, gnawing anticipation.

So we should talk about something, and this is as good a point as any. If you’ve got any critical thinking skills, O Watchful Reader, you’re probably starting to wonder why the veteran pickup artist with a Little Black Book thicker than John Holmes’ dick at an NFL cheerleader dance-off still gets sweaty palms and a raised heart rate watching bikini girls on Lauderdale’s beaches. Why do I keep going weak in the knees for each new pretty lady with a nice smile and a nicer pair? I mean, from the way women affect me sometimes, you’d think I’m a horny adolescent virgin. Why am I not more jaded to the delightful appeal of young women’s curves by now? How can I possibly still go gaga over a glimpse of cleavage?

First of all, you should realize that the giddy excitement I’m feeling — and candidly expressing in this memoir — rarely reaches my face. Externally, I play it perfectly cool whenever I think that’s in my benefit, and only let myself go ga-ga if I think that will impress a lady. I’ve got a ton of experience with that by now. Increasingly, though, I find it’s not a bad thing with some women to let it shine through — some girls think an awed guy is weak or a pussy, but other girls really like being able to have that effect on men and are willing to take somewhat reverent guys home to enjoy it in more depth. Especially guys that can stay witty and charming while being all googly-eyed, and know their way around a poetic compliment or three.

But that’s not what this is about — you’re likely wondering why I’m so excited inside. You may not know it by name, but you’re probably familiar with what psychologists call hedonic adaptation — the idea that the psyche adapts to sensual delights, and they get less and less fulfilling with sufficient amounts of repetition.

The truth is, on some level I am still a horny adolescent virgin. At least, I’m able to think like one. This is a conscious choice and a learned skill. It even has a proper name — the Adolescent Eye. It’s a thought-shaping program I use to condition my own psyche with a response and reward system. It’s very much intentional and premeditated. I wrote about it a fair bit in my second book, though I didn’t cop there to how much it was inspired by my love of teen sex comedies or that it was ultimately juvenile — I called it the “sensual eye” back then, like some smooth aristocratic decadence thing. Back then, I was ashamed of immaturity — I thought that admitting it would make me look pathetic, and be less likely to be taken seriously as a pickup guru.

Now, I no longer give a fuck. I’ve exorcised some things since then — in the Taurus Escalation, chatting with Livia after Pervy Movie Mondays and Tempest’s weirdly-kinky jackoff-lecture all played a role in that. Yeah, I intentionally created a set of psychological exercises designed to keep my mind eager for sex and viewing it through a haze of adolescent awe. Yes, I want my eyes to go wide with wonder and my heart to flutter a bit every time I see a new girl take her bra off for the first time. It’s a conscious choice, a shaping of my psyche in a premeditated mold.

The thing is, I know men that have gotten jaded about sex. A few pickup artists are like that. They don’t stop wanting it — they just stop valuing and enjoying it. Instead of being a source of joy, it becomes a ritual oblation against insecurity and aging — a way to prove their status, dominance and superiority over other men. The actual sensations I so covet and adore get forgotten in that rat race mentality.

It might seem a weird life choice, to condition yourself for a perpetual, consciously neotenic sexuality — but when you get familiar enough with the alternative close up, the idea begins to make a lot more sense. I can say I haven’t regretted it to date, and paradoxically I do find it often makes for a more healthy adult sexual perspective than you might initially expect.

The sexy contests are ubiquitous and relentless. Teenie weenie bikini, best tan lines, wet t-shirt, whipped cream bikini, lingerie dance-off, flirty skirt macarena. You can’t escape it, and the girls seem totally comfortable with it. Curvaceous coeds in bikinis wander the beach delivering fliers for said contests. We personally encounter, and hit on, five such ambitious entrepreneurs. Two are jaded and disinterested, and a third is loyal to her boyfriend.

I Eyefuck the fourth and fifth extensively while delivering glib double entendres. They do not avoid my gaze. The fifth is a demure young sensualist that we talk into a massage on the beach. I’ve got Livia with me. I rub tanning oil all over her svelte young body. When I invite Livia to help, the flyer girl seems open to the idea. We talk a fair bit, and get to know each other. A lot of roaming hands ensue during the massage — she seems to love it as we both reach inside her bikini and covertly fondle her bits and bobs. I get her wildly horny, and she ends up making out covertly with both me and Livia on the beach. Livia even manages to stealthily finger her to a trembling orgasm as she passionately kisses me. The crowd notices the kissing, obviously, but stays totally oblivious to the sex act.

We’re eager to get her back to our hotel room for a real hookup and some full-on group sex, but tragically she sees someone she knows on the walk back and has a sudden attack of nerves, ending up bolting on us. I’m not allowed to say a lot about her, and nothing that might be identifying, so let’s simply say it was a pretty good time even if it ended in an anticlimax. In retrospect, the way it turned out is for the best — I’m glad this impromptu hookup doesn’t become my first time going all the way with Livia. I have bigger, better ideas for that. She wants me deeply at this point, and I’m enjoying stringing it out and pumping the temperature.

The fourth, however, is even more memorable. I strike up an Eyefucking-enhanced conversation with the her after taking her flier — a curly-haired, buxom waitress named Diane. She’s horny but not overly smart. With only the slightest bit of subtle, smooth prompting and dialogic programming from me, she ends up in an unexpectedly risqué first conversation with a handsome stranger about her own sexual fantasies and exploits.

She eventually tells me an extended, rambling anecdote that seems very focused on how she had lost her bikini top in public. It seems to excite her a lot, so I take her over to a hot dog stand, buy her a hot dog and smoothly tie the string of her bikini to the stand’s handle when she bends down to pick up the food. It makes all the hours I’ve spent recently practicing manual dexterity and misdirection for stage magic seem worth it.

Oops! Such beautiful, jiggly C-cups with pencil-eraser nipples, exposed to the hungry eyes of dozens of male wolves on the beach. When she asks me for help, I am (needless to say) eager to aid the poor young lady and quickly cover her breasts with my hands. She seems to accept this as sincere — as I said, she may not be the smartest (or may just be getting exactly what she wants). We ask a passerby, an aloof lady in a one-piece, for help. She turns up her nose and keeps walking.

Now, getting the advertiser’s top stuck in a hot dog cart... I wasn’t overly subtle about that. She had just told me (albeit in circuitous terms) how much getting her tits out turned her on. Getting the strap to her bikini bottom hooked on the arrogant lady’s purse, however... that required the hand of a magician, and I carry it off quite well to the point that my young conquest never suspects it was me. I know this, because she runs up and slaps the mortified and baffled purse-bearer indignantly, flaunting her whole delicious nakedness to everyone on the beach in the process.

As the beautiful and now quite naked Diane argues with the purse-bearer, I catch the glance of Livia a ways distant on the beach. She gives me a subtle thumbs-up and points me out to Mimi as the two lie tanning. Diane finally comes back to me, and I can see she’s genuinely angry, but also quietly aroused. I calm her, and quietly escort her to a shady locale under a bridge. I assure Diane no one can see us, though I’m being a bit dishonest — I used a stage signal as I chose the spot, and Livia and Mimi quite discretely move to where they can get a better view of Diane and I.

Diane babbles incoherently in a nervous panic about her exposure, but she’s also very turned on, and does not resist in the slightest when I calm her by pressing my lips to hers and giving her a bit of tongue. When I finally pull back, she gasps. “Oh, Martin, you’re so sexy! I think I’m in love.”

Well, I guess that’s a bit of payback for all the times male pickup artists failed to remember a girl’s name after it was clearly given. It doesn’t bother me, though. “I’m not looking for love,” I whisper in her ear. “I just want some righteous fucking.”

“Ooh, ooh, me too,” Diane exclaims, blatantly contradicting her last sentence. “I love whiteout fucking! Especially the parts involving hard cock!”

I ask her if she knows how to make a cock hard. She nods eagerly and drops to her knees in the sand to prove that yes, she does in fact know this and is really rather skilled at doing it. As she polishes my rod with her tongue, I meet the gazes of Livia and Mimi about a hundred yards distant and grin. It probably shouldn’t surprise me that Livia brought binoculars with her to the beach, or that she’s shameless in using them to take in the action. Mimi, for her part, gives a cheerful vacuous wave and a thumbs-up sign.

“It’s hard now,” Diane says giddily. She flicks my erection with a forefinger, watching it bounce back and forth in delighted awe. “Really hard.”

I slide a condom out of my trunks and roll it on. “How do you want it?” I ask Diane in my huskiest voice as I Eyefuck her a bit more.

“The sexy way!” she replies enthusiastically. How very informative.

I turn her around and push her against the concrete bridge, and go into her from behind. It isn’t just Mimi and Livia watching us now, but I doubt we’ll get in any real trouble. We’re about the fifth couple I’ve seen engaged in marginally covert public fucking — and this is still our first day at Lauderdale!

As I pump Diane, my hands reach around to flick and pinch her nipples. She likes that a lot. She makes really odd sounds during sex, a kind of “Yi-yi-yi-yi...” panting.

I get the feeling her previous lovers have not been overly sensual, and I doubt they knew what a clit is. She goes kind of nuts, wriggling and moaning and grinding, when I reach around and start to flick it. She’s very enthusiastic in her grinding gyrations, and I glance over my shoulder to meet Livia’s gaze. She’s moved again, coming dangerously close to me now — maybe twenty yards distant — and I wonder what Diane would say if she sees her and Mimi perving on us. I don’t care that much, though, honestly. I meet Livia’s lusty gaze and Eyefuck her as I cock-fuck Diane. Livia and Mimi’s hands slide between each other’s legs and began to rub vigorously as they watch. Sadly, even if I stopped with her clit I know Diane won’t last long enough for them to bring their voyeuristic tryst to similar completion.

Diane has her hands pressed against the concrete. She’s panting with every thrust. Her body is slicked with sweat, and her magnificent C-cups jiggle in time as I slide in and out of her slick pussy. I pump her and tweak her clit and nipples until I’m sure she’s had a nice moment and is coming down, timing myself to pop just after her. I pull out, slide the condom off and spray a generous load of wet semen across her beautifully tanned back.

“Oh, goodness,” Diane says. “I think it’s starting to rain. I hope it doesn’t ruin the day.”

I take a few seconds to reply to her, struggling not to laugh at my deeply dense partner. “Don’t worry,” I say confidently to her. “That’s just the Rain of Love, and it never ruins anyone’s day.”

I may be able to say that with a straight face and confident tone, but Livia apparently can’t stay composed upon picking it up, and bursts into riotous chortles. Diane darts up, finally noticing our two brazen voyeurs.

She lets out a started “eep!” then follows it quickly with, “Um. Hi. We were just practicing my golf stroke! Next time I play, I’ll get a touchdown for sure!”

Seeing that the two watchers weren’t buying that, her next approach is to grab her bikini and bolt like a startled deer. Sadly, however, she did so before I could clean off her back. I try to approach her and tell her, but she evades me. A passing bodybuilder and his sultry bikini-clad girlfriend step over to whisper something to Diane. I don’t catch her exact response, but it has a very condescending and know-it-all tone, and I’m pretty sure I can make out the phrase “Rain of Love”. Bereft of any possible response to this, the confused couple simply walked away.

Thankfully for all concerned, I’m able to get Diane into the surf soon after for a little apparent hanky panky to get her cleaned up. “I’m kind of done with whiteout fucking for today,” she tells me in a blasé tone, “but I really enjoyed it, like, a lot. Will you come back tomorrow?”

I will not actually be able to make that rendezvous due to professional obligations, but I do sit Diane down and talk to her more honestly for a bit over hot dogs. (I pay, since it was my hijinks that had caused her to drop the original pair.) She’s a legit bimbo, no hypnosis involved... — and also a relentless optimist who seems to love her life, her body, herself and her Spring Break experience to date. So perhaps all my philosophical ruminations back at Remedial were not as on-point as they seemed in my mind.

I will only see Diane in person one more time during Spring Break, but it’s memorable enough to recount here. Let me briefly jump ahead in time six days — in which we will have two Escalations and a substantial amount of other things happen over our rather lively Spring Break tour — and recount that final encounter. I’m alone this time, with Livia and Mimi elsewhere.

I blunder into Diane by pure chance, strolling the beach. It’s one of the most absurd things I have ever seen. The young, dim debutante has set up a very amateur business stand on the beach, of exactly the same sort that little grade-school girls would use to sell lemonade on more wholesome beaches in 1950s films. On the stand’s posterboard are words awkwardly written in large block letters with a felt-tipped marker. “Learn How To Find a Woman’s Clit. $30.”

Only in Fort Lauderdale, folks. It’s an amazing place.

There’s actually a substantial lineup to her stand. She’s turning a good profit, both from the younger, awkward male dorks and losers who came to Spring Break in the hopes of losing their virginity and find these hopes dashed by macho alphas with muscles or suave pickup dudes in leisure suits — and from a surprising number of women, many of whom look equally vacuous. When she finally closes the stand for the day, she greets me eagerly. “Marvin! Dude! I’m so happy to see you again! Thank you for teaching me about my clit! I’ve been having so much fun with my clit, it’s amazing! It’s like my new best friend!”

She chatters at me eagerly, in a mostly stream-of-consciousness fashion. I will admit to tuning out a lot of what she said; I’m pretty sure some of it involved alignments, reptiles, the Lords of Venus and the United Nations. Oh god, she’s like Audra but without the shrewdness or self-awareness! The part that catches my attention, though, is when she leans over and whispers in my ear in a vaguely conspiratorial fashion.

“You know,” she confides in me, “sometimes when a cute guy comes to my stand, I can trick him with the promise of some ‘special’ lessons about how to handle a clit. In fact, I can talk him into sucking mine! I know it’s terrible, but it’s also so much fun!”

I consider very carefully how to respond to this. “I don’t believe any man would ever fall for that,” I reply. “Show me how it works.”

And she gives me a hands-on demonstration. I think she forgets about half-way through that she told me in advance it was a trick. I don’t mind. As tricks go, this one tastes great. I think I stretch out the meal to a good thirty minutes — no quick snacking here! The firm ass cheeks feel great in my hands, the buildup is gradual, the growing flush appealing and the trembling thighs and strange ululating moans set off the main course perfectly. Whenever I look up, I get an eyeful of those perky little boobies jiggling faintly. Yum!

That is the last time I see Diane in person. I will see her image after that, however, long after the Trips had wrapped up, about a year before I write this memoir. It will be on a billboard. I understand she’s now gainfully employed in San Francisco as an accredited sex therapist. That accreditation must have been interesting — I’m not sure if she grows a lot after I meet her, or used other methods to gain the credentials in question. (Or, maybe she’s just a bright girl with a good enough bimbo routine to snooker even me — who knows, it could happen). Regardless, though, I’m happy for her. Only a deeply cold heart could feel contempt for someone having as much fun as Diane clearly does. I guess in some fields, it doesn’t matter how much you know or how smart you are, as long as the one lesson you really want to teach is impactful enough.

Okay, enough random and spontaneous hijinks and debauchery; it’s time to move on to the highly structured and meticulously planned-out hijinks and debauchery. Our erotic gossip session the night after I fucked Cathy, along with the whisper-monologue I used to seduce Tempest, have inspired Livia to create a new routine — a game we plan to call Make Her Blush. We agree that while men respond the most strongly to visual stimulation, women likewise often favor words and auditory eroticism. We work out the routine in detail ahead of time, as we always do — but I am a showman at heart so I will describe it to you, O Intrigued Reader, only as it actually happens. For now, it is sufficient for you to know that we need a good supply of eloquent and attractive men. If they are natural suggestibles, that would be great too — but not strictly essential.

Now, attractive men are widely available in Fort Lauderdale during and just before Spring Break. It doesn’t stand out in my mind nearly as strongly as the bikini girls, but shirtless, well-toned pretty boys are almost as common on Lauderdale beach as their female counterparts. Eloquent, though... that’s a lot harder. Spring Break is not known for its eloquent guys. That’s actually why we’re doing the routine here — to stand out. We have the Sieve; no one else does. And we have a theory about how to really turn girls’ sexual cranks and set off some fireworks that would simply not occur to anyone else.

We need eloquent. We also need a disciplined, lewd mind — the kind of guy that can speak openly about sex, can use grown-up words when describing sexual activity. So we hold what are essentially tryouts. We wander the beaches — not just Fort Lauderdale beach proper, but the beaches of the Greater Lauderdale Area — Pompano, Hillsboro, Deerfield. We disguise ourselves slightly as vaguely sleazy sex researchers doing a public access show — we don’t say that aloud; we just leave it implied.

Livia dresses super-sexy in a low-cut spandex one-piece to act as a lure, to get the guys to give us their time. We want answers to a sex quiz, we say, and offer prizes to anyone that completes it. We ask questions, and suss out how comfortable guys are answering in detail. Usually, we declare the quiz over within five minutes — but when we find a promising mark we just keep pulling out more and lewder questions, and pressing him for details. Livia uses a lot of subconscious cues (and a bit of blunt seduction) to get them to open up. I believe she even ends up bribing one of the guys with a little oral action. Watching her work excites me.

Here’s the slightly gross part. Mimi sneaks into an abandoned lifeguard station on each beach and sets up our new, very expensive pinpoint parabolic mike. She flicks it among different clusters of guys on the beach and listens in on their conversations for short periods. This is not ethical. I know that. In our defense, they are talking in a public place, we don’t tape them and we aren’t looking to humiliate anyone. We just need a way to find the rare highly articulate (but still horny) guys on packed beaches hosting the Million Meathead March. The parabolic mike optimizes that, and Mimi uses it to lead us to people to interview.

We are goddamn efficient, acting with confidence, swagger and ruthless precision. We have allocated two days to find the seven best guys, and we managed to get all seven in an eight hour workday. We let them know a fair bit more about what we are really doing and what they are in for, and they agree quickly. They’re as horny as all the other dudes at Spring Break, but to date lack a way to stand out from their more muscular peers in the hookup game. We specifically aren’t looking for the “sensitive gentleman” types, mind you — what we want is confident, horny, handsome guys able to get downright lurid with words.

We need to approach girls and couples too. You can’t just approach guys on Lauderdale beach. That signals gay. There are definitely some hard gay cliques at the beach, but we don’t want those guys (for obvious reasons), and more importantly we don’t want others to mistake us for them. So while we hook guys for one show, we also go around hooking girls for a totally different routine. This actually enhances our interest from the guys — they see us pull cute girls, so they figure we’re their gateway to fun times (and they’re more right than they could ever imagine), and this gets them to put more effort into our tryout and selection process.

This girls’ bit we’d started planning as soon as I dropped my money into the Trips’ kitty. You surely remember “You Bet Your Bikini,” right? The amateur gameshow we made up in Queensland to separate bikini meter maids from their bikinis? Well, what better place to resurrect it than Fort Lauderdale? We actually contact a very select set of those meter maids back in Australia and invite them on an all-expenses-paid Spring Break vacation in the US — on the condition that they will film a big finale YBYB episode for us. The five we pick are the most loose, fun-loving, hedonistic and (or course) attractive of the girls we filmed in Australia. And Whina — the one I made squirt with my eyes alone, because of course she’s a sure pick. The girls have graduated at this point, so their meter maid jobs matter to them a lot less.

Livia calls up the Queensland Board of Tourism and somehow manages to talk them into going 75/25 with us for these prepaid vacations. I admire her art of the scam, but I can also see the case she makes. Our publicity profile has blown up since the Noodle show. Spring Break is a huge thing in pop culture, and Fort Lauderdale is its pulsating heart. We are offering to run a special, racy, “Aussies versus Yanks” game show at the world-famous Summers with strong publicity potential — and the girls would be exposing the massed American vacation crowds to Surfer’s Beach by way of its bikini meter maids.

The Tourism Board has already seen episodes we filmed in Australia — surprisingly, they turned a blind eye to them and just tolerated it. Now, we are planning to take the content of the finale substantially outside the realms that I think the Tourism Board will be comfortable with — but they don’t know that when they sign off on 75% of five young ladies’ free vacations, and in fairness we probably will end up driving more than enough tourism to Surfer’s Paradise to make their choice a wise investment.

We pick the meter maids up at Jacksonville airport on Friday, the day before all the college students flood into Lauderdale — the last day they are still in school. We drive them to the same hotel we’re at. We get them all individual rooms, but they were quite happy with two, a trio and a duet. I give Whina a meaningful stare. She blushes and smiles.

“I’m really looking forward to filming our next game, Marc,” she tells me with remarkable poise given our previous encounter. Her compatriot giggles uncontrollably — I suspect the story has been told, and talked about in depth.

I escort the trio to their room, and Livia does likewise for the duo. She comes back two hours later than expected, and with a deeply flushed face. I strongly suspect fun was had, for those definitions of fun where it serves as a euphemism for ‘orgy’. Our ducks have all been lined up — we’re ready to run the biggest shows of our career to date!