Rogue Casanova

I enjoyed the torment of desperation I saw in their eyes, all of them. Women, when they are desperate, are great service.

Joan’s an insurance sales lady way past her sell by date. When I told her that I was moving on with my (not) fucked up life, she cried rivers. She even went ahead to offer much more than I thought she could – all her lifetime savings (that she had kept top secret) to me if I stayed. Well, if that’s the case, she had to sell part of her muddied soul to the devil himself. Apart from being a full time fuck buddy (No Strings Attached lest she forgot), janitoress and the laundry girl, she had to perform unorthodox sex acts, some off the curves, with me and my gang of intellectually challenged, drug conditioned human guinea pigs. I met her just when her body was beginning to wither from overuse by the very many men she had sold insurance policies to and offered her Rubenesque body to as bonus. In her wildest dreams she wanted to settle down, and I was the ideal idiot, but she had not known that she had met a self-proclaimed, celebrated Casanova and a sex manic with tendencies bordering on predatory.  

Jackie’s a rich dad’s girl. Apart from having a trust fund running into millions of dollars she cruises the streets with the latest state-of-the-art sports utilities that snake through traffic like a puff adder. The only problem is dad doesn’t know she’s hooked to meth as she is to me. Without either she is lady gaga. When (and if) dad knows this she’d lose everything just like that. So, when I told her that I need to be kept good she agreed to extort her potbellied politician father of hundreds of thousands on a weekly basis. I use the money on my research and experimenting on humans. I am sexologist, the misunderstood meaning that is. I fuck everything female so long as it’s not inanimate. I just discovered that the vagina can be operated on, thanks to technological advancement, to increase pleasure levels to unscaled heights. I have this dream, like Martin Luther King, Jr. guy, where sex would be the only thing happening in this world. Then I would be a demigod.

Then there’s Pastor Will’s worse half. Not even faith of Abraham and her husband’s speaking in tongues had been able to satisfy her to the point of absorbing his cursed seed to bear him a child. One tryst led to another until it became routine after one chilly evening I spotted her speaking to a pimp, who turned out to be me, at a high end motel. From then on I have enjoyed the fruit in the centre of the Garden of Eden without hearing the voice of God walking in the garden. She just gave birth to her second born, and her prayerful husband offered thanks giving to God.

I've just got my new catch, the First Lady of this republic. Never mind how, I bumped into her during one of her out-of-the-house-on-the-hill campaigns and since I am a medical doctor to be touted for a Nobel Peace Prize in the near future, we hit off. Turns out the father of the nation is neglecting the First Lady, matters of national importance take precedence. Let’s say I just became her gynaecologist.

Playing my cards well with these women has given me some satisfaction, a kind of feeling that I’m a genius, but what I enjoy most is the shenanigans, the best thing to happen to them since first kiss.

What I think of is, ‘Man, King Solomon must not have a palace’.