She's stringing him along, and has told him as much.  He's clinging desperately to what he can.  I find it sad.

She says shes not fucking anyone else, yet, in the meantime, has gotten a tattoo near her vagina of a coupleof cherries.  A small bunch of cherries.  He gets mad whenever I point that out, and doesn't know what I'm getting at.

I don't know, dude, but if I was fooling around with a girl and I found that tatoo, I'm pretty sure I'm not thinking of fresh fruit at that point.  Also, I'm thinking I'm In like Flynn.

(tangent:  what a cool guy, to have your name almost synonymous with getting laid)

My professor had his live in girlfriend of several years move out on him.  They hadn't really spoken in months.  She'd been avoiding him and still living with him.  He, being a nice guy, let her stay as long as she liked.

I mentioned to him that he needed to get some resolution on this, which he did.  Via email.

She moved out last week. 

How can people live and love and not communicate this simple shit?

My school friend Chris went on a bad date that went psycho on him tonight.  He called me shortly after.  Apparently an hour into the date she asked him if he was going to flirt with her.  He said he didn't feel like it, to which she countered that he seemed to like her before.  He said he didn't and she demanded to be taken to her car.  Whether or not this is all true, it does point to the fact that someone lost their shit one hour into a date.  One hour.

If you can't hold your shit together for one hour, you shouldn't be dating in the first place, and probably should have the suicide hotline on speed dial.  Freaks like that were made to be eaten by the system.  And, yes, in case you were wondering, talking someone out of suicide is dreadfully tedious, so much so that you almost want to lash out at the poor bastard.  "Goddam it, kill yourself or stop passive aggressively boring the shit out of me.  The world is a cold hard, beautiful place and it does not give a damn about you.  Face it.  Now DIE! DIE!  DIE!...and leave me the FUCK alone."

Not that I would do that.  But, yes, that thought has crossed my mind.

And in the similar vein of woman troubles, we went out last thursday, dan, me and chris.  Lotsa fun.  Lotsa pool.  Adventures were had until we were at Bushy's.

Bushy's throbbed with live sexual energy.  Like a cock getting ready to burst, the place nearly vibrated with sexual tension and life.  A drop of all the plastic pretension of the town, I felt endeared to the place upon entry.  Nasty young ugly skanks ground their private parts on old men's legs.  The pool tables were open, and everybody was fucked up.  It was lovely.

We got in, I bought a pitcher of beer and a diet coke for myself and sat near the pool tables.  Kareoke was on, but that didn't seem to matter. 

A few pretty girls were there, actually, and tried to make eye contact with me.  I demurred.  Because of Audrey.

We played some pool while one of the girls who tried to get my eye writhed on the dance floor.  Another smiled seductively at me.

And another large, lecherous beast lurched out of the crowd.  3 bills, perhaps 350 with a bad complexion, ratted out hair, and way, way WAY too much make up latched onto Dan and dragged him into the mob of a dance floor against his protests.  Strong armed him, the poor fucker.

Dan is repressed.  Dan is an angry soul, angry about everything with a persistent case of Oppositional Defiant Disorder, which gives him real issues with authority.  Dan is a conspiracy buff with narrow political values.  Dan is borderline paranoid something or the other.  Neurotic as fuck, its tough to imagine him allowing anyone to touch him.

And there he was grinding on the dance floor with a 350 pound brute of a woman.

Chris and I finished our pool game several songs later, and the beast had released him.  His shirt was undone, his face was flushed.

"She had her hand in my pants," he said with bated breath, "She was JERKING ME OFF ON THE DANCE FLOOR!"

I'm not entirley sure she was doing that.  But it was possible. 

I don't think Dan has been touched by a woman in years.

"How's it goin' hoss?" I asked.

"Right now, I have no idea what's going on."  he said.

And then the beast was on him in a flash.  Lips mashing, tongues tangling in mouths.  His hands held mounds and mounds of back fat in its grip, massaging it for all to see.  It was frightening.  I goaded Chris into taking two camera phone pictures of the event.  Neither turned out.

On and on the ground their bodies together, hers dwarfing his in terms of sheer bulk.  He a mere two hundred pounds to her bulbous skankiness.  I saw his hands dip under her pants to her ass.  I looked away.

"Lets do him a favor." I said to Chris,"Lets leave him."

"Yeah." Chris said.

As we walked past, Chris said something low to Dan about us leaving and tapped him on the leg.  Over my shoulder I heard Dan ask her, "Are you taking me home?  I can't drive.  Are you taking me home?"

Epilogue:

A week later Dan came to one of my shows.  I asked him if he fucked her that night.

"Not THAT night." he said.