I’ve Seen This Mole Before!
reverendhornibastard
Depraved Deacon of Degeneracy
I can’t remember who it was, but someone said the best test of a man’s character is to shower him with good fortune.
I was tested in this way.
I flunked the test with flying colors.
I think I was a nicer person when I was a penniless student.
But when I graduated and became a lawyer, I changed for the worse.
It wasn’t the legal profession that made me a bad person. I think becoming a practitioner of any highly paid profession would have produced the same unflattering result on my dented and needy psyche.
Suddenly I had money for a change. Suddenly a lot more women thought I was hot stuff. Many of them were obviously gold-diggers but many others were just ordinary young women with stars in their eyes who dreamed of having children who could attend the best schools, go on Caribbean cruises at Christmas break, skiing vacations at spring break and see Europe during the summers.
But instead of being some young woman’s dream come true, I became the boyfriend and husband from hell. Don’t believe me? Just ask Mrs. Hornibastard #1 or Mrs. Hornibastard #2. Or ask any of the many other women on whose hearts I tap danced.
Then things got immeasurably worse.
After three years in London, my employer thought it would be a good idea to send me to work in Southeast Asia. I was there for 15 years.
They pay you a lot of extra money to go work in a place that has malaria, cholera, dengue fever, world-class air and water pollution, near constant gridlocked traffic and terrorism. And all the extra benefits they provide are tax-protected.
So you can imagine why I soon became convinced that my shit didn’t stink.
To compound the problem, I was now in a part of the world where I found most of the local women incredibly attractive and where most of the local women thought having a foreign boyfriend or husband like me was a status symbol.
I went totally ape-shit.
At first I thought the girls were simply interested in the money. After all, most Indonesians are very poor compared to Americans. But then I realized that even the women who came from families that had more money than God and Davy Crockett put together were hot to have a foreign boyfriend or husband.
I tried to make the most of it.
To say I was like a kid in a candy shop doesn’t quite capture the moment. I was more like a silverback gorilla in a banana shop.
Although things had gone from bad to worse, I failed to realize it at first. For a while, I thought I was having so much fun. I had a new woman in my bed at least 3 or 4 times a week. It wasn’t unusual for me to bring them home two at at time for a “double header.” https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2119
It was so incredibly easy. In fact, it soon became a little too easy, bordering on monotonous.
I wanted things to be more challenging. So I made a game of it. When I went out on a love safari with my buddy, we would try to make it more interesting by imposing arbitrary conditions on what sort of girl we would each take home. For example, there was pony tail night. Only girls with pony tails were on the menu. There was blue skirt night. One night I decreed that I would only take a girl home if she had at least three visible zippers on her clothing.
I found her.
She turned out to be my first major league squirter. Until then, I thought girls who squired like that were just an urban legend.
But the more nameless women I brought home for a one-night stand, the lonelier I became. I tried to make up for my loneliness by bringing even more women home.
It didn’t solve the problem.
Then one night, I spied this fabulously attractive young woman at a night club where I often engaged in “natural selection.” Just looking at her pushed all my buttons. https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2117 She saw me looking at her, smiled broadly and came to my side and never left it. Eventually I indicated that I was leaving. She questioned whether I was leaving alone or whether she was invited to leave with me. Of course, I said she was welcome to leave with me.
Once in the taxi, I apologized that I could not hear what her name was when we were in the club. It was one of those clubs where the music is so incredibly loud that even if you were stone deaf you could FEEL the music pulsating through your body.
She seemed shocked when I asked her name. She began crying in the taxi.
I was totally bumfuzzled. Why was she suddenly crying?
She regained her composure before we got to my home. Once inside we started making sparks and soon retreated to my bedroom.
As I was peeling off her panties I suddenly stopped and said to myself, “Hold on! I’ve seen this mole before!”
This lovely young flower had a Cindi Crawford mole just beside her gorgeous shaved pussy.
https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2118
She had been in my bed before but I failed to even recognize her, much less remember her name.
That was the beginning of the end for me. I realized what sort of shit head I had become and was not happy with myself.
It took a while to change my ways, but with the aid of my live-in maid and cook, the woman who eventually became Mrs. Hornibastard #3, I was eventually rehabilitated (to a degree).
Fortunately, my rehabilitation was not accomplished on a “cold turkey basis.” The ravenous sexual appetite of the young woman who eventually became Mrs. Hornibastard #3 helped to soften my landing. She fed her own sexual exhibitionism and voyeurism by inviting her more libidinous and willing girlfriends to our home for wondrous naked pool parties and memorable, exhausting overnight sexual hijinks. https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2127
Those were the days!
A part of me would love to do it all again.
You can probably guess which part.
I was tested in this way.
I flunked the test with flying colors.
I think I was a nicer person when I was a penniless student.
But when I graduated and became a lawyer, I changed for the worse.
It wasn’t the legal profession that made me a bad person. I think becoming a practitioner of any highly paid profession would have produced the same unflattering result on my dented and needy psyche.
Suddenly I had money for a change. Suddenly a lot more women thought I was hot stuff. Many of them were obviously gold-diggers but many others were just ordinary young women with stars in their eyes who dreamed of having children who could attend the best schools, go on Caribbean cruises at Christmas break, skiing vacations at spring break and see Europe during the summers.
But instead of being some young woman’s dream come true, I became the boyfriend and husband from hell. Don’t believe me? Just ask Mrs. Hornibastard #1 or Mrs. Hornibastard #2. Or ask any of the many other women on whose hearts I tap danced.
Then things got immeasurably worse.
After three years in London, my employer thought it would be a good idea to send me to work in Southeast Asia. I was there for 15 years.
They pay you a lot of extra money to go work in a place that has malaria, cholera, dengue fever, world-class air and water pollution, near constant gridlocked traffic and terrorism. And all the extra benefits they provide are tax-protected.
So you can imagine why I soon became convinced that my shit didn’t stink.
To compound the problem, I was now in a part of the world where I found most of the local women incredibly attractive and where most of the local women thought having a foreign boyfriend or husband like me was a status symbol.
I went totally ape-shit.
At first I thought the girls were simply interested in the money. After all, most Indonesians are very poor compared to Americans. But then I realized that even the women who came from families that had more money than God and Davy Crockett put together were hot to have a foreign boyfriend or husband.
I tried to make the most of it.
To say I was like a kid in a candy shop doesn’t quite capture the moment. I was more like a silverback gorilla in a banana shop.
Although things had gone from bad to worse, I failed to realize it at first. For a while, I thought I was having so much fun. I had a new woman in my bed at least 3 or 4 times a week. It wasn’t unusual for me to bring them home two at at time for a “double header.” https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2119
It was so incredibly easy. In fact, it soon became a little too easy, bordering on monotonous.
I wanted things to be more challenging. So I made a game of it. When I went out on a love safari with my buddy, we would try to make it more interesting by imposing arbitrary conditions on what sort of girl we would each take home. For example, there was pony tail night. Only girls with pony tails were on the menu. There was blue skirt night. One night I decreed that I would only take a girl home if she had at least three visible zippers on her clothing.
I found her.
She turned out to be my first major league squirter. Until then, I thought girls who squired like that were just an urban legend.
But the more nameless women I brought home for a one-night stand, the lonelier I became. I tried to make up for my loneliness by bringing even more women home.
It didn’t solve the problem.
Then one night, I spied this fabulously attractive young woman at a night club where I often engaged in “natural selection.” Just looking at her pushed all my buttons. https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2117 She saw me looking at her, smiled broadly and came to my side and never left it. Eventually I indicated that I was leaving. She questioned whether I was leaving alone or whether she was invited to leave with me. Of course, I said she was welcome to leave with me.
Once in the taxi, I apologized that I could not hear what her name was when we were in the club. It was one of those clubs where the music is so incredibly loud that even if you were stone deaf you could FEEL the music pulsating through your body.
She seemed shocked when I asked her name. She began crying in the taxi.
I was totally bumfuzzled. Why was she suddenly crying?
She regained her composure before we got to my home. Once inside we started making sparks and soon retreated to my bedroom.
As I was peeling off her panties I suddenly stopped and said to myself, “Hold on! I’ve seen this mole before!”
This lovely young flower had a Cindi Crawford mole just beside her gorgeous shaved pussy.
https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2118
She had been in my bed before but I failed to even recognize her, much less remember her name.
That was the beginning of the end for me. I realized what sort of shit head I had become and was not happy with myself.
It took a while to change my ways, but with the aid of my live-in maid and cook, the woman who eventually became Mrs. Hornibastard #3, I was eventually rehabilitated (to a degree).
Fortunately, my rehabilitation was not accomplished on a “cold turkey basis.” The ravenous sexual appetite of the young woman who eventually became Mrs. Hornibastard #3 helped to soften my landing. She fed her own sexual exhibitionism and voyeurism by inviting her more libidinous and willing girlfriends to our home for wondrous naked pool parties and memorable, exhausting overnight sexual hijinks. https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=2127
Those were the days!
A part of me would love to do it all again.
You can probably guess which part.
2 comments
I had a similar experience in a strip club, but in my case it was the stripper who got it wrong.
First she called me the wrong name. When I insisted that was not my name she seemed irritated. She claimed I was just trying to get rid of her.
I was not trying to get rid of her. She was really hot and I was actually hoping to get to know her and her pink parts a lot better.
Then she recounted a couple of OTC encounters she remembered having with me, going into graphic detail about where we ate dinner, what hotels we stayed in and all the wild sex we had.
It sounded wonderful. But it also persuaded me that she was definitely confusing me with some one else.
No way I could have enjoyed such steamy nights with a woman as hot as her and not remember anything about them.
I’m not sure she was ever totally convinced that I was not the man she remembered.