Message-ID: <16005eli$9810042016@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/16005.txt> From: dez187lm@hotmail.com (H.D. Meister) Subject: [ASSM] Story: Paranoid Paradox - paranoid paradox.txt [1/1] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <6ujsnf$k2m$4@solaris.cc.vt.edu> Greetings. Here is another story from the Mind of H.D. Meister. If you are not at least 18 or live in a community which does not allow adult material, DO NOT READ THIS. Post freely, archive and critique as you will so long as the work is not altered in any way, you do not gain a profit from my work, and all due credit is given to the author: me. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Paranoid Paradox By: H.D. Meister (dez187lm@hotmail.com) If only I let myself become like the others, I'm certain that things would not be so cold during Winter nights. I could walk with a strut and laugh at the hearts left in the wake of my passing. I could fuck 'em all. So I don't. And I will never become like them. It is not arrogance that backs my claim; I am too weak willed to be arrogant. Honor. Respect. Duty. Discipline. These are why I will never be like them. Let them fuck 'em all; I want to love only one. Why only one? Come now; surely Time has not stopped only for you? AIDS. Unplanned pregnancies. STDs. Did I leave out anything? Why... yes I did. Trust. Caring. Self respect. Honor. Love. Lasting happiness. Now... what was that you said about only one? Take her, for example. Even though she spent last night wrapped in the arms of one, see how her eyes slide over the forms of those walking by her? Judging them as if she were insider a meat market. Who knows; we may well be little more than dead meat pretending to believe we are alive. Maybe she's right and we are wrong. Look. See how her eyes wander over his rear? And look at how her hands twitch. Now listen... hear that? She speaks as if she truly loves her current boyfriend. And who am I to say that she does not? As the saying goes, it does not matter where you get your appetite so long as you eat at home. Perhaps she sees one young man at work, and uses ideas of their sexual encounter to fuel her fires when she finally settles down next to the one who knows her sex nightly... or as close to nightly as any man can hope to achieve. Or she may be sizing up the one body which will allow her to get away with a quickie. Or a not-so-quickie. Come to think of it... who said that it only had to be one? See? This is why I will not become like the others. Temptation at every corner, with many of them having been crafted by your own cravings. I am paranoid, but not even I can live the rest of Life looking behind everything with a backside... looking underneath beds, tables, sofas, chairs... peering into every crack of every building... glaring into every car I pass, whether I am in my own or simply walking through a parking lot at the grocery store. How long could I go on before I would doubt my own shadow? And for what? A quick fuck in my cramped two-seater, which is parked down some long forgotten dirt road deep in the middle of Bum Fuck Egypt? What about him? Don't let the fact that his eyes always wander about fool you; note how often those parts of the women most associated with the physical part of sex are looked at. Lips. Tits. Ass. Cunt mound. Yes, he is one of those persons that mothers in the 1950's used to warn their daughters about. Oh he won't turn into a sex fiend; his type never do. They are the ones who... watch. See how is smile grows as he gets closer to a woman? And notice how his eyes are now looking for tell tale signs that she is already spoken for. But... that doesn't fit, does it. Why would he care whether or not she's dating someone else? Nor is he looking for specifics. OK... there is the matter of the solid gold band and/or the solitaire diamond. But that trait is learned in highschool, and is therefore easily dismissed as a learned behavior. But why is he looking at the cut of her hair? What is he looking for as he watches her eyes watching him approach? Acceptance? Like that really matters; all he wants is a fuck, right? The only thing that matters to him is bending her over and bangin' the ever-lovin' shit out of her cunt. Or ass; you simply can't tell with most black men. But, and this is the whole problem, what if he's trying to see if an overture of friendship is taken as the very thing I just mentioned? Sounds stupid. Never could happen. But it does. So he went through the motions of the others... just so that he could try and gain a new friend. Outrageous. Foolish. Wise. Think about it; who would you, if you were a woman, be more afraid of: a guy acting "normal' or someone BEING HONEST. Think about it, and let me know what your answer is. of course, by that time we may well be on our death beds with more tubes and wires in our bodies that veins and nerves. And this is why I will never become like the others. Honor above the blowjob. Respect before the handjob. Duty before doggie style. And these are not words; they exist. They are as real as the tits on a porn star: made and crafted by God (or a man who thinks he's God.) So I go to work every day and work. Sound easy? Think again. Every now and again I see a woman with a smile that instantly brings me out of any funk. Her body is shaped in the most seductive manner possible. One could even say that someone crafted her body to please every quirk I had. From nose to thighs, she was just what I wanted: not perfect, but not fucked up either. Just.... well built. And I work. Ad work. And work. Why? Honor. Duty. Respect. Fear. If I were to smile at her, even in the line of duty, how long would I have to wait until the police come crashing down my door with their shotguns belching buckshot and dogs chomping at the bit outside of my windows. And I haven't even touched her!! Imagine if I were to lather my face with the golden nectar of her cunt. I think the United States military would be hard pressed to cover up a nuclear strike.. And we can't forget that this IS the South, I am black and she is white. The Second Coming would be a welcome vacation to THAT war. So I work. And work. And work. I shall never become like the others. I dress as the situation calls for; who cares what the latest fashion is? I wear what I like. Don't like it? Tough titties if the milk ain't sweet. I don't try to fuck anything that's even remotely female shaped. How do I know WHAT, let alone WHO, was inside that cunt. Even if I get stupid and assume she's heterosexual, that leaves quite a few dicks out there. I could narrow things by placing race with race, but even then it's a royal butt fucking. And I could group them in smaller and smaller sets, but it wouldn't help. Who's to say that little miss blonde haired priss likes only GQ blonde Ken-type with more plastic in his hip pocket than she has silicone in her tits? Why can't she like getting her eyes knocked out of her skull by Billy Bob Redneck with the monster truck? Look at it this way. No matter what do, there are, at best, three outcomes. I go to jail and wind up bent over in front of big, bald headed bastard named Bubba who's screaming, "You my bitch now, boy!" Not a pleasant picture. I could get hunted down by a mob, the police or, joy of joys, BOTH. I used to be able to run a mile and a half in under thirteen minutes, but that was before I discovered the joys of beer. I think about running that far and I get sleepy. Neither of those choices is a winner, but the third choice is the worst of all. Why? Because it has Potential. The last choice: I could actually wind up speaking to her, dating her, then marrying her!! And before anyone decides that I’m a total jackass, hear me out. This choice has Potential. If you've studied physics, you've run across potential energy. Stored in any number of means, it awaits release. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes not. But one thing is constant: Potential Energy has but one ultimate end: transformation into kinetic energy, which takes a variety of forms. And what does this have to do with getting laid or falling in love? Look closely. Let's say I approach her and start up a conversation not tied to work and she doesn't scream bloody murder. Let's say she actually is a very good conversationalist. All of that Potential worry has been released, but the kinetic energy gets stored in a new form: What Next. If I continue talking to her, we may become anything from casual acquaintances at work to fuck buddies (pop quiz: where does love fall between those two?). Now let's take a look at best case scenario. We start talking. We become friends. The friendship matures, spawning trust and, eventually, caring. We fall in love. We date. We have our ups and downs. We survive those. We live together for a while. We have our ups and downs. We survive those. We decide to get married. We survive the engagement, with a few ups and downs along the way. We get married (and I get a case of cold feet before my best friends threatens to cut off my balls if I back out on this after he had to get dressed up in "... this monkey suit you call a tux.") We have our honeymoon. We return to normal life. We have kids. They grow up; we grow old. We die. Can you count the number of changes there, boys and girls? Now remember... that's the BEST CASE!! Only in Hollywood... and only if there isn't a tit shot of the latest super model or more explosions than inside the Sun. So. We come back to my claim. I will never be like the others. Fuck 'em; feed 'em fish heads. So what if they find themselves wrapped in the arms of this one or that one. How much time do they have before they lose everything? So what if there's this hulking brute sucking on a beautiful little things tiny tits with all of the care of a potter crafting a work fit for and emperor? Who cares about the sweaty bodies heaving underneath silk and satin sheets. So what if she's sucking on his dick with her only thought being his pleasure. Why wonder about whether or not a guy's knocking a girl's fillings loose... and she's begging him to do it. None of that matters when it's all said and done. Duty. Honor. Respect. These matter. (dez187lm@hotmail.com) -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>