Jackpot with Twenty Sirens

The first one was more of a learning experience than anything. We were both in the throes of youth and experimenting. A drunken night with a broken approach like a plane landing with one engine out. Number two was smoother. It was easy, cause she knew what she wanted. Force and show. My own personal Vegas. That was a good one. Three was more personal. Some of the awe had gone, and I had more time to be intimate. I was soon cured of that mistake. One slow drive to Willie Nelson, and one broken heart later, I met number four. She was a hippie, and her parents liked to drink and drive. At the time, I was impressed. One night we went swimming naked, and lay on a raft panting like a dogs in the heat. I ruined it this time. Five was a blonde and true to her soul. It was fun clubbing and dancing every night, but the sex was mediocre. I remember answering my phone in the middle of it, and when I looked down to see her reaction, she was on hers. I wonder what it sounded like on the other end. At last came number Six. Tall and lithe and swaying on the deck of a Greek cruse ship like an abandoned mast. I even tried to resist on this one. She burst into my solitude, drunk and horny, and handed me her room key. Laying in the cramped bunk afterwards, I thought of the many women of Bukowski and Hemingway. It made me feel both dirty and proud at the same time. We had shook the hell outta that ol’ bunk, and I was wondering about the quality of Greek bunkbeds when a light turned on from the top. Her roommate must have lain there and rode out that storm. Later in the hall, thinking about the girl on top, she became a mental number eight. Nine was a coked out vixen with dark tendrils for hair. She had a great body, but the hands of a retired dock worker. I wouldn’t look down when she touched it. Still, that was the first time I laughed during sex. Laughter muffled in the sheets and soaking into the air. Usually the clearest insights come to me in the seconds between sex and sleep, but that time all I could think of was her. I was in the computer lab of all places. All the monitors reflected pimples and braces. A clueless blonde sorority girl fumbled with her mouse. Her name was Christie and she smelled like cigarettes. I helped her out with some C++ and returned to my station. On my way to the bus stop, I saw her up ahead, and admired her on my walk up. We talked on the bus, and when she got off at my stop, I walked her home. She attacked me as soon as I closed her front door, and would not relent until I was drier than a mummy. She was skilled and young, and I would have killed for her at that moment, but all she wanted me to do was get the hell out. I wonder if she had a boyfriend. On the way home I wondered, “Did I win, or did I lose?”

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