Spring

Oh, thank god, Spring has arrived.

I mean, sure, the trees have been doing their thing, and the weather’s been vaguely warm some days, but the true measure of the season comes in the form of girls. The women I stalk.

Stalk’s a strong word. I like to say “creep,” because it has a cute 1950’s-ish feel to it. “Lurk” is even better.

Anyway, there’s this one chick at my bus stop who’s Hungarian or something. She’s tall, and has mousy hair with grey settling in. She started showing up at my stop during the winter months – all long coat and collar stuff. But I knew she was hot. She also has a funny face, and I’m quite partial to weird looking women. I was never a big tits supermodel type. Of course, I’ll take a big tits supermodel… If…you know, if you’re reading this and were about to email me or something. In fact, I’ll take anything. I haven’t had my ashes properly hauled since the Columbia blew up. That’s February, 2003.

So bus stop girl showed up today in corduroys and a nice top, all figure hugging and what have you. Because I have been staring hard at fully clothed women since 2003, I’ve started to associate bra straps as part of the female anatomy. You know, those little bumps in the back…like the little nubbins of fallen angel’s wings.

Yeah, that’s right, I called you an angel. Now get in the van and don’t scream! No one can hear you!

She seems as shy as I am. Shyness is the real reason I lurk, creep, and/or stalk. I’ve never been very comfortable around women. The first woman I ever loved – I was in third grade and she was in ninth grade (I’ve always liked them older) – was killed in a car crash. After that, I was teased relentlessly by my peers that she had been replaced by an android and was off killing people or something. Perhaps due to a deep fear of androids, I’ve not trusted women ever since. Of course, this distrust has been supported by the usual round of liars, cheats, whores, and cruel intentions that the “nice guys” often receive from girls throughout high school and the early part of college. I’m especially a fan of fucking me and then telling me you have an STD. Cute. How many bullets have I dodged? My god, I think I stopped dating women just because I got tired of the blood tests, false alarms, and soul-shattering scares.

I enjoy sex but, strangely, the years since my last experience have been liberating. It’s kind of like when I got rid of my car in 2006 and became a public transport guy. I missed the car, it was really convenient, but I was somehow freed on a deep and rewarding level.

When it comes to pursuing women these days, I always stop short. Assuming the shyness doesn’t cripple me from the get-go, I know, really, in my heart of hearts, that I’m probably better off alone. It’s cheaper, I can focus on my goals and personal projects, and I can stay home all weekend, naked, drinking, watching people through the window.

Actually, that last part sounds lonely now that I write it down. It sounds brave and noble in my mind… Weird.

This girl at the bus stop is intoxicating in that long-distance (or short) stalker way. I spend my time wondering what she’s thinking. Is she thinking about her fancy Coach handbag? My office mate schooled me on the handbag social structure, and Coach is supposed to be high up there. So my thoughts frequently turn towards stealing her Coach bag and selling it on the street, because I’m a liberal arts major and we have to always be on the lookout for financial opportunities in order to pay back the extraordinary student loans taken out to pay for our useless degrees.

Besides finally seeing her figure – which has a boyish, yet curvy, charm – I was shocked to learn that she had longish hair. I always thought it was sort of spaceman helmet, except limp and graying, but today she had a cute little ponytail past the shoulders. Also limp and mousy. It’s attractive that she’s not doing lots of shit with her hair, because I hate salon girls. I knew a girl who had to fly to France once every few months because that’s where her favorite stylist was. She was okay, though, because she was rich. I plan to marry rich… I want to be a kept man. But she didn’t work out because she had pussy problems.

I work in the city so, as spring comes down on us, that means I’ll soon be able to spend my lunches drinking obsessively at sidewalk bars and watching scantily clad women walk around. Making spank bank deposits throughout the day, of course. Though I think my Cheggit subscription has burned out any hope of normal sex. That’s the trouble with porn. After a while, you start to expect that behavior from normal women. Heavily tattooed Asian anal freaks. Vanessa Lane doing acrobatics. Lexi Belle in a schoolgirl outfit. Micah Moore in glasses pretending to fuck for textbooks. Evelyn Lin as an unsuspecting babysitter…

I’m a fan of story porn. Not involved threads, just, like, where’s your daddy, wanna ride to school? It seems like most porn caters to the 30-something shy lurker.

Yeah, writing that down sounds kind of lonely, too. You know what else sounds bad? I have a dental appointment on Saturday, and my dentist isn’t covered by my insurance plan. Why do I keep going to her and paying out of pocket? Because she’s a beautiful older blonde and I love how my head nestles between her breasts as she digs crap out of my mouth.