Women are Stupid

by M1ke Hunt

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, .

Desc: Sex Story: (#13) a political manifesto (whatever that means)

It's OK to forward these stories to other people. I mean, as long as it's OK with the other people. I wouldn't want you to send it to your 9th grade homeroom monitor or anything. Unless she really was fucking the Science teacher like we all thought.

It's also OK to print the story out and make a copy for a co-worker. I'd be careful not to leave it on the secretary's desk, especially if her Rolodex is open to a lawyer's phone number.

Make sure the person you give it to is over 18. Otherwise you could be in deep shit. I don't know exactly how deep; I'll measure it and get back to you.


Yes, I know the title "Women Are Stupid" will cause an uproar. It's bound to in today's world. And when an author is assailed by critics - as I am sure to be - he inevitably backs off or tries to weasel his way out of the controversy or claims he's misunderstood. Or misquoted. Or something.

Not me. I really believe it. Women ARE Stupid. I'll take it a step further. Not just some women, not even most women. All Women. They're ALL stupid. I have a story that illustrates it. I don't know how else to prove it, but I think it's obvious. The story starts below. Spare me a few sentences for the logic:

Men will do anything for a piece of ass. I mean anything. We'll fly across the country for an illicit rendezvous; we'll revisit a bar and hope to meet a girl we saw there last Tuesday and don't even know; we'll even pretend to like Yanni, or whatever the fuck his name is. Do you think women behave like that? Shit. You can barely get them to sit down in front of a porno movie. Even a good one, where the girls have big tits.

Think about it. Women have all the pussies in the world. 100%. They *OWN* the market. And yet men have most of the good jobs, big cars, best toys, political power and prestige. If women just all snapped their legs shut for a couple of months every man on the planet would be a whimpering fool, and would happily chuck his power and possessions for a little snatch. It's true.

The funny thing is that every man knows it and women apparently don't. Now that's a worldwide conspiracy of silence if I ever saw one. I wonder if Oliver Stone has thought about this?

That's why I say Women Are Stupid. All of them. Well, maybe hookers have it figured out. But nobody else.


I was the luckiest guy in the world. For about a year. When I was 28.

A friend of mine was looking through the front of a major men's magazine and for some reason was reading the credits. The masthead, they call it. I never spent much time on that page myself.

Anyway, my buddy called me and said, "I didn't know you worked for Playboy."

"What??" I barked into the mouthpiece.

He said, "Your name is here on the masthead. Do you have a copy? Take a look."

I went to my living room and got the latest issue. Sure enough, someone with my exact name was the Assistant Photo Editor. It was a funny coincidence, and I pointed out it out to friends over the next few days. Within a month I was convinced that women are stupid.

Like, I could start up a conversation with a pretty girl in a bar, confident that she would eventually ask me what I did for a living. Now my choice was to tell her that I was an accountant for a small CPA firm or to lie and say that I was a photo editor for a magazine. You guess. Right. So when she asked which magazine, I would reply "Playboy."

I was rarely challenged, but if I was it was simple to find a recent issue and produce my driver's license. Voila! I'm him! I got one of two responses. The first was cold, like I was some kind of dirtbag. That happened maybe 2% of the time. The other 98%, well, that's what this story is about.

One time, I was hanging around a bar that had girls in T-shirts serving beers and chicken wings to guys. The bar was called "Jugs," or something subtle like that. They served their beer in jugs, get it? It was kind of a slow day, and I was chatting with a couple of the waitresses. One was cute and one was pretty. There's a difference. One was short, one was tall. One had a big bust, one was pretty. You understand. It was three minutes of "Where did you go to school?" and "What movies have you seen?" and stuff like that. Thank god "What's your sign?" went out in the 70's. And then, "Where do you work?"

I paused. "Playboy. Local office. I handle the northern part of the state."

"You're kidding," the blonde piped up.

"Nope. I get that a lot. Why doesn't anybody believe it when I tell them?" I asked.

"I never met anybody who worked for Playboy," the cheerleader said. "I never even met anybody who *knew* anybody who worked for Playboy." I could have written cue cards last October for this conversation.

The other girl looked up at me and asked "What do you do there?"

"I'm Assistant Photo Editor. I scout talent, go on shoots, you know..."

"You scout for talent? You mean..." she said with wonder.

"Girls. I find models for the magazine. Centerfolds, pictorials, other stuff." I shrugged. She was fascinated. Pretty girls usually are when they think about the fame and fortune that can come from being photographed in a classy men's magazine. I mean, she'll happily take off her clothes in front of a stranger with a camera. But do you think she'll let you unbutton her blouse in the back of a Ford? Not likely. Well, not without a fight, anyway. Women are stupid.

The second waitress was taller and had dark hair. She was more of a classic beauty, either Italian or Greek, I decided. Her deep tanned "look" didn't seem to jibe with the hot pants and the T-shirt tied under her tits, still, given a little direction she could be a real piece of talent herself. She was quieter, surveying me, deciding whether this was just a line.

"How do you do that?" the sis-boom-bah girl asked. She was doing most of the talking. "I mean, I guess I know how you do that, but how do you decide?"

"Usually just a quick test shoot. I send 'em in to headquarters with my recommendation. Usually they follow it... sometimes they don't." Hey, not my fault if you don't show up in the next issue.

"Where do you do the shoots around here?" the European flavor asked.

"Oh anywhere, really. The tests are only of the girls. Just Polaroids, you see. We spend a lot more time thinking about the composition and theme of the articles when they're actually going into the magazine." I'd said this maybe a hundred times before. I was even starting to think I knew what I was talking about. "You can never tell. Sometimes you'll find the prettiest girl, but it just doesn't translate through the lens. And sometimes you'll find a girl who's, well, sort of average, but the camera loves her." I shrugged again. "You never know until the test."

I casually looked them both up and down. "You know, either of you girls could make it. You're both quite pretty, in very different ways of course. But actually I'm not working at the moment. I just came in to get a beer." I smiled a lopsided smile. That's how I always looked when I lied.

The beauty turned to the cutie and said, "Do you think..." She restarted. "Would you, uh..."

The cutie said "Sure. In a minute." In a New York second, I thought.

"Yeah, well, I suppose I would too, come to think about it." The girls looked at each other and giggled.

"Hey, I suppose we could arrange something," I said with practiced nonchalance. "What's good for you?"

They haggled with each other. They wanted to be there at the same time; they were friends or something. But California girl got off shift in a half-hour. Dark Hair had to work til 9. Couldn't tomorrow, had to visit Mom. Dentist appointment Thursday. Date for a ball-game Friday night. The schedules just wouldn't mesh.

I finally interrupted. "Why don't we just do it when you can each do it? Whoever isn't in front of the camera is going to be bored anyway. And you'll probably just make the other one uptight." They thought it over. The cute blonde said "I'm off shift in 25 minutes." I took the cue.

"Fine. I'll just nurse a beer until you're ready to go. We can go wherever you're comfortable. You'll need a bathing suit or T-shirt or something."

The bronzed babe looked disappointed, like there was only one lollipop and I had given it to her friend. I turned to her. "I'm REALLY looking forward to working with you too," I said with emphasis. "You both have such totally different looks. Variety is the spice of life, right? That's what we look for in the magazine: exotic beauty from all over the world." Her eyes glazed over, and I arranged to call her the next day. Tall and Tan put her name and phone number on the corner of a napkin.

I figured I'd have my dick in the blonde's snatch in 90 minutes, two hours tops. You could call Morty in Vegas and make book on it.

The cheerleader and I left together. She asked if I had a studio but I explained that I didn't since I traveled all over the state. I knew how to engineer the conversation into a sophisticated "my place or yours." I'd done it dozens of times, and we had to go to my apartment to get the camera anyway. It usually worked like that.

She didn't have a bathing suit with her, of course. But just telling the girls that they wouldn't have to undress completely made them comfortable and then they stripped naked. Stupid. I told her she could stay in her bra and panties, or even in her T-shirt, although it would make the pictures pretty useless back at the mansion. For Hef to look at, I meant.

We walked into my place. I kept it neat, especially the living room. She surveyed the mass of cameras strewn across one of my shelves. In truth, I had picked them up, broken and useless, at a couple of photo stores. Barely good enough for door stops; they were just props. That's why they cost me a total of $50.

We made small talk, and I showed her the place. It wasn't big but it was nice, and at least I had put a little effort into decorating. I also left some open space on one side of the living room for my modeling sessions. "You can change in there if you want or you can stay right here. Whatever." I walked over and got my Polaroid. I had 94 film packs in a nearby drawer. I even had another cheap instant camera handy in case my good one broke; it was just insurance.

The expensive model I used cost me half a week's pay. Top-of-the-line. Auto-focus, light balance, you name it. It did everything but undress the girls, which was good, because I preferred doing that myself.

"OK, let's lose the T-shirt," I said helpfully. Her hands flew to the bottom of the material and she prepared to whip it over her head. "No no, slowly slowly. Reveal yourself to the camera." She slowed down. I pushed a button. CLICK. The flash flashed. The mechanism whirred, and a white cardboard treat was ejected from the front. I took it and set it on the table.

That's the only trouble with those instant cameras. You can't just CLICK CLICK CLICK, you know? Every push of the button generates several separate events. And you have to change film packs much more often. On the other hand, with those regular cameras you have to take the pictures down to the corner FotoMat and the girl at the counter gives you the hairy eyeball when you buy them back from her, like you're some kind of sleaze, or something.

"OK, lift the bottom up and let me see your bra. Higher. Higher. That's good."

CLICK. FLASH. The motor whirred. "OK, let's lose the shirt." She lifted it over her head. I looked back at her. Her bra was not dainty; it was built for reinforcement and support. She needed it. She stood there without grace or poise; apparently that was to be part of my job. "Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Good. Tilt toward me a little. Good. Pooch your lips." CLICK. Another one wasted. The first half-dozen always were, but they were important to help the girls loosen up. I clicked a couple more as I walked around her and looked at her from various heights and angles.

"Now reach behind and unclasp your bra." Her arms flew to the task. "Slowly. Slowly. That's good. Let the straps fall down your arms. Don't take it off completely. Tease me. Please me." She was beginning to understand what I wanted, and she let the white material slip down the slopes a little at a time. Her tits seemed to get bigger and bigger the more she let it slide. Finally a reddened circle began to appear. CLICK. The camera spit out a picture. She dropped the bra to her navel and her breasts hung low but firm. She was huge; at least a D cup. And I could tell by their sway that they were real, not like those plastic tits that stupid women buy.

"Oh my," I said. "You really are pretty." 'Pretty' might have been the wrong expression. What I meant to say was "FUCK! LOOK AT THOSE KNOCKERS!"

I clicked my way through two film packs while she followed my instructions to stand, bend, kneel, sit, roll over. I could have trained Fido with this routine. Bark! Come on, bark!

She willingly lowered her panties and I took some tasteful shots of her in the buff, standing behind a chair, holding onto a floor lamp, that kind of thing. I said "Do you want to do a couple to Hef's taste?" I made it obvious that I was an insider.

"What's... that?" she said slowly. "What does he like?"

"Well, tits, of course," I said. Who didn't know that? She chuckled. "But he really likes to see women lying back on a couch... I don't get it myself, but it's his taste, you know?"

"Sure." She walked to the couch and lay down. I fluffed a pillow.

"Rest your head. That's it." She relaxed.

"This is it?" she said.

"Pretty much," I answered. "Arms in. Hold your, uh, tits up." She did. As she pulled her arms together the oversize mounds of flesh rose up like the mountains of Nepal. But where those are capped in white, hers were topped by rose colored peaks the size of chocolate chip cookies. "Wow. Terrific," I said. I moved down to the end of the couch. "Open your legs a little." She did. "A little more." She hesitated. "This is for Hef, remember?" He knees fairly flew apart, blatantly revealing her womanness to me. I hunched over and snapped a picture. It would have her thighs in the foreground, her just revealed cunt in mid-frame, and her mountainous tits further back. Her face was hidden; to get it in the picture and over her jugs her neck would have had to be two feet long.

I walked back to the front of the couch and leaned over to snap a close-up of her snatch. The camera spit out the cardboard square. I had the lens pointing down at her and the undeveloped picture fell, hitting her in the pubic hair. I reached for it. Her hand got there first.

"Sorry," I said. "I wasn't trying..."

"Well I wouldn't be surprised if you were. Look at you," she said. She was right. I had an erection inside my pants that Houdini couldn't have hidden.

"Sorry," I said again.

"It's OK. I'd be insulted if you weren't excited, you know?" she said. Her hand reached out and touched my pants just below the knee. It slowly traveled up, kneading and stroking my leg as it worked its way to its destination. I felt her fingers touch my hardness. I stood there.

"You're amazing," I said. "So beautiful. So sexy. This is so unexpected." I had met her an hour-and-forty minutes ago. I still had 20 minutes to my two-hour deadline. I should have called Morty.

She pulled at the zipper to my pants. I stood and watched her hands at work. She said to me "No pictures now."

"Of course not," I said. I put the camera down roughly at my feet. For $200 with an extended warranty it could take a little bouncing.

She reached into my fly and extracted my dick. As her fingers encircled me I began to help. My hands pulled at my belt buckle and the pants fell to the floor. I loosened her grip on my member just long enough to push down my boxer shorts, then guided her back. I stepped out of my pants as I pulled off my shirt.

I let her stroke me for several moments, and the feeling was exquisite. "Omigod," I blurted.

"What?" she said, concern in her voice.

"I forgot the most important part. Your face. I need some shots of your face." I grabbed for the camera. She let go of my cock.

"Just lie there," I said. I looked through the viewfinder. Her face filled the frame. CLICK.

"Got it?" she said.

"Oh no. Got to take several more of these. This is the most important part." I stood before her with my dick waving in the air. "Look sexy," I commanded. "Make yourself feel sexy. Show it to me in your face." Her eyes went to my erection. "That's good," I said. "Very good." CLICK.

"Closer now. Closer." I moved toward her. I lifted one leg and stepped over her. I stood above and over her chest and moved the camera in even closer. I clicked the shutter again quickly.

My enraged cock hovered over her breasts. I bent my knees, moving down for a closer shot. My balls dragged along her stomach. With a small movement of my hips I positioned my tool exactly between those soft mounds and rested it on the hard breastbone between. I held the camera over her face. "Come on. Look sexy. Feel sexy. Do sexy." She squeezed her arms together and her tits enveloped my throbbing penis; I was surrounded above and below, to the right and left. "Hold it right there," I said. She thought I meant the pose, but I meant my dick, of course. I clicked the camera.

My puffed up prick sought escape. I moved it forward toward her face. Couldn't get through. I moved it back, toward her cunt. Again, no way out. "Your face is glowing," I said. "You must be having wonderfully sexy thoughts. This will make a great shot." My hips bucked forward and back again. And again. I aimed the Polaroid at her face and clicked. She was incandescent. "Look at me. Look right at me," I said. My hips continued to buck; she continued to hold her tits firmly together providing a tunnel of passion for my cock.

Oh, did I mention my hobby? I'm a craftsman; I sometimes make jewelry. I can produce a pearl necklace in 30 seconds flat. I was about to give one to this girl and even help her try it on. Some talent, huh?

On a side note, it's this exact moment that convinces me Women Are Stupid. Like if every secretary who ever did this with her boss stopped right NOW and demanded a promotion to Vice President of Marketing or something, do you think she would get it? Of course. But do they do that? Of course NOT. They're stupid. Uh, sorry for the interruption.

Anyway, I continued to buck back and forth, call instructions and snap pictures until the camera ran out of film. I felt my fuse light on its way to the explosion that always followed. I bucked ferociously. She squeezed her tits together harder. Then I was at the flash point, my dick spurting and ejaculating as glob after glob of sticky, smelly spunk was ejected under pressure. Again and again. Each exciting tingle producing another string of white droplets.

It was a pretty piece of jewelry, this necklace. The pearls were everywhere, tastefully arranged all over her neck and chest. One or two of my spurts had happened while I was in backstroke, and I had cum into the tunnel, only to push it out on my next thrust. I had jizz dripping from my cock and balls. Ummmm. It was OfuckingK. I glanced into the kitchen.

"Unbelievable," I said.

"You really think so?" she giggled.

I was talking about the clock, not her. I still had three minutes to spare. Like I said, two hours from "Hi" to "Pop City". Of course I hadn't cum in her pussy, so my prediction wasn't totally accurate. Close enough. "Really unbelievable." What else can you say?

I walked to the kitchen and grabbed the dish towel. I tossed it to her as I pulled a paper towel from the roll to wipe myself up. The next part would take five minutes; it always did. She'd ask how long it would take to know something and I'd explain that I mailed the pictures to Chicago, and hopefully at the next monthly editorial meeting they'd be looked at, and then someone would call me. Sometimes those meetings were real busy, tho, and could slip a month. Or two.

Occasionally I'd pick up a current Playboy from the coffee table and show the girl my name on the masthead. Sometimes not, it didn't matter. The girls always bounded happily out of my place leaving behind a quite satisfied impostor.

The next day I called Contestant #2. She was the one with all the schedule problems, and we made a date for Saturday, three days away. There was just no way to make it sooner.

She rang the bell at 10AM sharp. I always like punctuality, it shows interest.

"Hello Rona," I said. "Come in."

She stepped through the door. She looked wonderful. Tanned, mysterious, a trifle exotic. A nice change. She carried a little gym bag.

"I brought a bathing suit like you said. Two suits, actually. You can take your pick."

"Great," I answered. "Can I get you something to drink?" She shook her head. "Diet Coke? Fancy water?" She shook her head again. I gave her the nickel tour. It was a token effort; I only had a three room apartment.

When we walked into the bedroom I gave the standard pitch. "You can change in here, or... out there. Doesn't really matter." Actually to some girls it does. Taking off their clothes to the camera is OK, but just standing and changing in front of that same guy, well, they think that's weird. Tell me that's not stupid.

She said, "I'll change in here."

"Fine," I said. "You said you had two suits..."

"Oh, yeah." She fished around in the gym bag and brought them out. One was a loud bikini with big yellow and blue swirls. Well not that big, since there was so little material. The other was a soft blue one-piece, just a slight vertical ribbing to the material, no pattern. She just knew I would choose the bikini. Easy choice. I picked the one piece.

It was a simple decision, really. The one piece was very low cut with slits running all the way down the sides. And it had no pattern to distract the eye. Not that my eye wasn't practiced and all, but I hate patterns on bathing suits. Why do you think the army paints that green shit on its tanks and battleships? Cause it makes you crazy and your eye can't focus. Same thing. Blue and yellow bikini, camouflage green Humvee. Same thing. Anyway the one piece was one of those cheeky models that I thought would be interesting.

I left the room. When she appeared she was holding her T-shirt in front of her. "I didn't know if you'd want to have this..." she said, unsure of herself.

"Yeah, bring it in. I don't know if we'll use it or not," I answered. I'd played the T-shirt game with her friend; she and I wouldn't need it. I wondered if beauty and cutie had talked.

She walked over to the open area of the living room. "OK, stand up tall." I got ready to waste a half-dozen pictures. CLICK. "Shoulders back, good posture now." CLICK. "Pretty face. Smile." I moved in for a close-up. CLICK. I took one from a few feet away. She filled the frame from her covered navel to her dark haired head. She was taller than I'd remembered, a good 5'8" I guessed.

The suit was quite attractive, if plain. The low cut front gave way on the sides to daring slits that ran almost to her hips. There was just a small spaghetti strap under each arm keeping the front and back panels pulled toward each other. There was a matching strap that looped behind and over her shoulder, and kept it from falling down. It was a nice effect.

"OK, what should we do?" I asked rhetorically.

"Well you started with the T-shirt a couple days ago," she said. So! They had talked. I wondered how much she knew.

"That was a couple of days ago. And, uh, it was different..." I tried to cover my tracks. "We could have you hold some props, maybe, or do some exercises, or..."

She interrupted. "I do modern dance. Maybe you have some music I could dance to and you could take some pictures?"

"Great idea," I said, walking over to the stereo. I punched the button on the CD player. The music of Yanni's orchestra filled the room.

"Oooo, Yanni," she squealed. "I love him."

"Me too," I said.

She began to move with the soft instrumental. She was lithe and she slowly twirled in front of me, her body twisting as she leaned against the couch. I grabbed the Polaroid. CLICK. Whirrr. Spit. I held a cardboard memory. She turned her neck and looked at me. CLICK. Another.

"OK, let's get a little risque, here," I said to her. She raised her right arm, as if to conduct the orchestra, and reached around with the other. She pulled on the little bow that held the side together; the strings released. Nothing much changed, though; the taut neckline was still held in place by the shoulder straps. Then she bent forward as she moved to the music. Now I could peek in the side. Her bare breast visibly hung from her chest, I could see the small pink tip just brushing against the inside of the front of the suit. "Now that's terrific," I said. CLICK. A keeper.

She straightened up, and though she was now facing away from me, said "I heard you like to be teased." She continued moving. "Is that part of the job, or just personal predilection?"

"Both," I said. "All men like to be teased. Just not forever." Actually in my case I'll choose forever, but then I'm weird. Not stupid, though.

"I see. So if I did this..." She pulled the bow on the other side. Her hand flew to the opening and she pulled the material forward, giving me a flash of her other breast. CLICK. I already had a mirror shot of this, but you can never be too careful, right? Then she added, "I was a little worried, because I'm not built like, uh, well like you're used to." She spun away again.

It was true; she was maybe a B cup. But her slim figure and height were perfect for her bust and hips and complimented her off-shore looks. I saw sultry. I wanted sultry. "What do you mean, like I'm used to?"

"Like a few days ago. With those big hooters of hers. I know you *really* liked that." She hit the word hard. "I even know that it ended with you, um, having sex on her chest, and you know, I'm not built like that."

Well. Apparently MIKE HUNT doesn't have any secrets from these two dolls. OK, maybe one. The name on the paycheck on Friday says "Harris Peterwick, CPA" instead of "Playboy Enterprises."

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Story tagged with:
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