Men are dogs and women are bitches.
Synopsis:
Revelation of biological truths behind serial cheating, polygamous craving, natural rejection of monogamy, male with female tendencies, female with male tendencies, heterosexuals, gays and lesbians.
Author: Ian T. Sebàs
Genre: nonfiction / social studies
Format: Kindle / Ebook
A few years ago, I remember wandering into an exotic club; you know, one where beautiful, sexy girls, served drinks with flirtatious smiles and dance sensually up against a pole, half naked, in 12-inch stilettos.
It was an unforgettable experience, for me, but not only because of the obvious. The girls were overwhelmingly entertaining, and my eyes had a fulfilling feast too, but considering that it was my first time, my eyes, while capturing the experience, could not help, but to equally notice the patrons as well.
There was an obvious age mix, but the over-fifties were the ones, who dominated the room, and wedding rings were clear evidence that most were married too.
So, fast-forward to yesterday, when I unintentionally angered my neighbour, by simply stating what was facts to my knowledge.
Mrs. Bolderano, who looks old enough to be my mother, saw it fit to tell me that Mr. Bolderano spends more time at Heels, the gentleman’s bar, than with her.
Without thinking, I uttered in response, “Well, maybe it’s because the women, there, are nice and they smile!”
I did not mean to be insensitive or rude, but that’s how it was received by her and she was obviously upset.
An apology was the furthest thing from my mind too, because I was not sure if she was upset with me or the truth of my words, and secondly, after giving it thought, I realized that any other answer I had given, would have not been the truth.
The nature of men is like that of a lion, who spends most of his time conquering his field, overloaded with testosterone and cannot live without the charm of a lioness.
In most marriages, charm is a limited supply of affection that evaporates at various paces, changing those, who were once in love and sexually appealing to each other, to plain sightings of a life partner or housemate, and men, who needs charm to satisfy their nature, often seek alternate options.
After trying to lighten the weight of the conversation, Mrs. Bolderano surprisingly revealed that she was in fact, five years younger than I am; this did not help to decrease the effect of my previous statement.
But it did help me to understand why Mr. Bolderano chose Heels over his wife, and it was suddenly clear to me why the over-fifties dominated the room of that exotic club, a few years ago.
Man, by nature is bold and strong, physically, and his counterpart, woman, is gifted with a certain power; she can strut the strings of his strengths, making him feel weak, vulnerable and yet secure for the moment he lets down his guard and puts down his armour.
This tantalizing feeling is an addiction to men.
Now, let’s fast-forward from the stone-age to today and Mrs. Bolderano’s situation.
The truth is, human nature has been blindsided by modernization and women have evolved into creatures, mimicking the behaviour of men, which force their primary nature into a secondary place.
Gifts of lingerie, stilettos or other romantic gestures, towards the average housewife, are greeted squeamishly, compared to having duties of manoeuvring the garden and bills.
Women, who are aware of their abilities to charm and men’s demanding nature, offers it for sale, and for that reason, the clubs are full.
Sex does not sell; most men have that at home. It is sexy that sells, the lure, the tease, the lingerie, the perfume, the sway in the stride, the charm.
© Ian T. Sebàs 2017
© Ian T. Sebàs
The best memories of us were when we first met
“Awww, the blissful years, the ones with no regrets
When I shaved and prepped in seductive perfume
A sure-shot lure to intimacy as you stepped in the room!”
It was a time when you wore matching underwear
Knowing that when you undressed, I’d lick my lips and stare
Now they are mismatched; our styles, a disgrace
As I grew a beer belly and scruffy hairs on my face
I remember we use to kiss goodnight and woke up spooning
But those vanished with the decline of our style and grooming
We began going to bed, often times, separate
Those lonely nights I stayed awake made me desperate
And that’s what led me to really start seeing her
Now, I wait for you to fall asleep, so I can cheat after
She takes my mind away from our ugly truth
And displays sexiness, the kind I’d hate to mute
I often fantasized of me and you sharing her
But I doubt you’d be interested in a ménage à trois
She likes it when she plays and I attentively watch
Also, when I touch her front and check her out from the back
A remote control in my hand is her biggest turn-on
A kinky fetish she developed in the country she was born
That, plus me sitting or lying on the sofa
She loves spontaneous attention too, and hates a steady rota
When she is turned on, her signature tattoo glows
She shines so bright and screams so loud, I wonder if my neighbor knows
She’s sexy, sleek and knows just how to entertain
I’ll never leave her, even if my neighbors complain
She’s open to me being a married, black man
But I never thought I’d cheat and fall for a Korean
Our interracial affair has shown me things, I never thought I’d see
So, while you, my wife, goes to sleep, I cheat with the Samsung TV
© Ian T. Sebàs 2017
© Ian T. Sebàs
Struggling to get it off my mind, I furiously said to my wife, “If you ever do something like that to me, I’d fucking kill you!” only to realize how stupid I sounded for saying that; after all, what I was referring to would mean that she’d be already dead.
“Do you ever realize how at funerals, people always talk about the dead in a positive light?”
“Fucking Tradition!”
No one ever referred to the Decease as a fucking prick, an ass-hole, a whore nor a good-for-nothing-son-of-a-bitch; of course not, that would be so disrespectful and untraditional.
But considering this shitty world, we live in, where glimmers of kindness are adored as poetry, it’s obvious that people are more ass-holes and good-for-nothing-son-of-bitches more than they are decent and sincere.
And while some people are afraid of spiders, snakes, and violent outbreaks, my phobia has always been to live a lie; you know, to die with a secret or to then realize that what or who I thought was real, wasn’t even real.
For me, that would be so fucking tragic.
But unfortunately, like I said, people are ass-holes so it does happen.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones were married for sixty years and had three children together. I don’t know all of the details, but with sixty years of marriage, our imaginations can run wild with the bond that they shared, how much they cared and the storms they weathered. Still, I was a little blown away to learn that those storms included an act of infidelity on the part of Mrs. Jones, some forty-plus years earlier.
I guess that I just can’t see past the innocence of a frail old woman known to me as Mrs. Jones, whom might once had been drop dead gorgeous, chased by many men and gave into temptation. Still, that’s irrelevant to my point.
Mr. Jones, on the other hand, who had been sick for years, eventually died last week and as expected the now widowed Mrs. Jones was devastated. Her lifelong love is no longer here. His death burdened her and because most of the money that they had, had been spent on hospital fees, she was again burdened by the cost of funeral expenses.
Pitied for being broke and heartbroken, she scraped together donations which allowed her to afford a half-decent funeral for her husband of sixty years.
And in her beautiful eulogy she embarrassingly expressed their financial strain, based upon her husband’s deteriorating health which led to his demise, before thanking friends and family for their support.
But a few days later, while going through some of her husband’s belongings, Mrs. Jones was gobsmacked to discover that Mr. Jones had a secret sole-access bank account with over a quarter of a million dollars in it.
The expression on her face said it all; it said that if she could retract the words from her eulogy, they would read “Son of a bitch!” but the only thing Mrs. Jones managed to murmur amid her tears was “He never forgave me!”
Bleeding Pen 