As I got out of my car and headed into the building, a guy pulled into the spot beside me. His car was a beautiful Candy Red Mustang SVT Cobra. I wanted that car badly.
"Wait for me in the restaurant next door Honey," he said to the woman getting out of his car. "My meeting shouldn't last for more than about an hour. That'll give you some time to shop for a bit and then meet me." She smiled and nodded.
She wasn't pretty. Well, maybe if you added plain. She was pretty plain.
"Hey," I called to the guy. He was a typical non-descript forty something bean counter type.
"Can I help you?" he answered.
"Yeah," I really like your car," I said. "Is it for sale?"
"Nope, I kind of like it," he smiled.
"It's a Terminator, isn't it?" I asked. The 03 SVT Cobra was called the terminator because with the factory mounted supercharger, the car was at one time the fastest factory built Mustang available. The cars, straight from the factory, ran with corvettes, which is incredible for a car with a backseat, especially one that also sat higher and weighed more.
"Yep," he said.
"What if I offered you 50 grand?" I asked. He just smiled at me and started walking away.
"Hey, I've got an idea," I said. "What about an even swap of your 2003 Cobra for my 2011 Mercedes AMG coupe?
"No thanks," he smiled.
"Shit!" I said under my breath as he walked away. I wanted that fucking car. Oh well back to business. I went into the same building the Mustang guy did. But there were a lot of rooms in there.
I got on the elevator and rode up to the seventh floor. I spoke to my host and he handed me an envelope. I opened it and checked the amount right in front of him. I know it was rude, but I'd rather be rude than get screwed. That's one of mine, so if you use it, don't forget to give me credit.
I looked around the room and saw a collection of men and one or two women. I really couldn't tell if one of them was just a really effeminate man, or a really tough looking chick. I wondered what the hell the women were doing here. But it really wasn't my problem. All I had to do was talk.
I stepped up onto the small stage and behind a podium. "Is this the Tuesday night meeting of the League of Losers?" I asked.
"No, it's a support group for divorced men," said a whiny voice from the audience.
"Thanks Poindexter," I snapped. "I know who you guys are. They're paying me to talk to you."
"Okay let's get started. First off, how many of you are here because your wives cheated on you?"
There were about 22 men in the audience and the two women. 20 of the men and both women raised their hands.
"Why are you two guys here?" I asked the two men who didn't raise their hands.
"Our men cheated on us," said one of the guys.
"Okay so everyone is here because their spouse cheated on them then right?" I asked.
Now we were getting somewhere. Every head nodded.
"Great," I said. "Whether you know it or not, you guys all won. When I say guys I don't mean it in the literal sense, ladies. I mean all of you in our audience are the winners. Right now you're here because a counselor or a therapist or a priest suggested the self help group you're in, to help you deal with the pain and the heartache that you're going through.
Realistically though, you shouldn't be sad, you should be happy and rejoicing. This, for all of you should be a time of celebration, because as I said before, you are all winners. You've all been stuck in a relationship for however many months or years that it lasted, with a person that wasn't good enough for you and who didn't really care about you. You've all come out of that relationship with most of your sanity intact and with a lesson learned about what you will not put up with in the future.
You are now ready to embark on the journey, the adventure of finding the person you're destined to be with; your real true love.
The problem that most of you are having is that you're blaming yourself at least in part for the breakup of your old relationship. You're telling yourself, "If I had only tried harder," or "I should have gone to her mother's with her," or some stupid shit like that.
Believe me it wasn't your fault. I'm an expert on cheating spouses and I can tell you that cheaters always do it for the same reason, themselves." I noticed that every eye in the place was now fully focused on me.
"Right now you're wondering if I'm a psychologist or a therapist. I'm not. I'm also not a guy whose wife cheated on him. Ladies and gentlemen, I am uniquely qualified to tell you the things we're going to talk about tonight because no one knows better than I do about what goes on in an affair. You're all wondering why your sweetie cheated on you with that asshole. I am an expert on the subject."
"What makes you an expert?" asked a guy in the first row.
"Well sir," I smirked. "I'm an asshole." The entire group gasped. They all backed up just a bit. As if I was contagious.
"Yep," I said. "I'm a tall good looking guy. I'm well built, I'm confident, I have all of that boyish charm and I can sell Bullshit to a cattle rancher and make him think he's getting something he really needs, while he's stepping in a field full of it.
While all of you nice people are out there looking for the love of your life to settle down with, like some real life fucking E-Harmony ad, I'm out there hunting too. Believe me it's just like the real estate market. Some people are looking to buy, while others are only looking to rent. Then there's the guys like me who just want to squat.
I don't want a long relationship with a woman of my own. I just want to fuck yours."
My whole audience gasped again. All of their faces showed shock.
"What kind of woman do you guys see me with? Probably some tall blonde model type with big tits and long legs right?" Most of the men in the audience nodded grudgingly.
"Nope," I snapped. "Booooorrrrrinnng. That doesn't do anything for me. And to tell you the truth most of them are the same in the dark anyway. Pussy is pussy. What really turns me on is convincing your dull, plain as grass, fat assed little wife to meet me and do the nasty in a cheap sleazy hotel while you're out playing golf or at work.
I just love the thought of how guilty she feels when she goes home to you wondering whether or not she took enough showers to get rid of my scent or douched enough that you can't detect any of my leavings in her. She probably carries that same guilt to church with her on Sunday, Knowing that I plugged her three or four times Saturday afternoon.
"While you come home bragging about the birdie you scored on the third hole, your birdie is still thinking about me scoring in her third hole. The one she hasn't even let you near after all of those years of marriage because it's too nasty.
"While we're on the subject, let's get back to the type of woman I like. Most of you are thinking I don't want your plain little wife with her fat ass, her short legs and her lack of tits. You couldn't be more wrong. Some of you think your wife is too plain, too skinny or too ugly for me. Wrong again. Those mousy little bitches that no one looks twice at in the supermarket really get me going.
They're also a hell of a lot easier to get. Here's lesson number one. A lot of you guys wondered during your divorce why your wife gave you all of that bullshit about how she didn't feel beautiful anymore or how she felt old. This confused the shit out of you, didn't it? You told the bitch you loved her every fucking day, didn't you? And you often told her she was beautiful too.
Guess what? It didn't matter. For some strange reason women think that their husbands are supposed to tell them that shit. So after a while, it no longer registers. You can tell her she's pretty twenty times a day and it'll go in one ear and out the other. I tell her once and she's mine for the taking.
When she's in the super market reaching for a gallon of milk and she looks up and sees me and I say, "Damn, you're hot." Her pussy just starts dripping. The conclusion becomes inevitable. In most cases once I lock onto a target it's going to happen and it's going to happen quickly. In far less time than you think, your frumpy, faithful little homemaker will be slurping my dick like it's an ice cream cone.
It's not your fault. You treat her well. You buy her things, you compliment her, and you're totally faithful to her. In fact you do everything that she always wanted, you"re the perfect husband. But at a certain point in her life no matter how much she loves you; she becomes vulnerable to my kind of bullshit.
Every woman out there wants the fairy tale. Even though "A" it doesn't really exist. And "B" she already has the closest thing that real life can come to it. She wants to believe that she is just as sexy as all of those air-brained super models on TV. She needs to know that someone other than you, is irresistibly drawn to her.
And that's where I come in. I feed her a bunch of crap and she goes for it hook, line and sinker. In her rational mind she knows that she loves you and that she shouldn't do it, but she can't resist. It's a kind of temporary insanity. Her one rationale becomes it will only happen once and you'll never find out about it. That's why your staid and boring little wife, the mother of your children and chairwoman of the PTA, ends up spreading her flabby cellulite-riddled thighs for me in the no tell motel.
That's why SHE does it. Why do I do it?" The stunned crowd is appalled. A few of them nod their heads.
"Because I'm an asshole." I smile and flash my megawatt boyish smile at them before I begin talking again.
.... There is more of this story ...