Nacho Belle Loser
It's not about sex. It's about power. I never expected to come to a new realization of exactly what this meant to me.
Perhaps I've had worst sexual encounters as a teenager but I can't remember anything worse than fucking Nico.
It was like signing up for a date with young Elvis and then having fat, old Elvis come knocking at the door. I had somehow gained satisfaction from most casual sex by attaining
"victory" through orgasm, the minimum physical requirement if the encounter offered little else. I was able to retain my power if I had at least gotten something out of any shallow encounter that may have gone bad.
We cannot always have love and emotion with our sex. I found that out a long time ago. We have these human needs and weaknesses and there are times when we can only fulfill the minimum requirements. This is part of the game. I've definitely scanned a bar or a nightclub spying for "some guy" who I end up looking up and down with a non-plussed 'you'll do.' I can, of course, only do this with men (not women) because sleeping with men in this way is something most women know is fairly easy. You never know what you're going to get, it may be easy, but it's not always worth it. We are well aware of the fact that we cannot always have excitement with our sex, but what's a single girl to do when she is obsessed with excitement, satisfaction and power?
I had recently gone broke and moved home to the suburbs with my mom. I decided to pass the time by giving 60 hours of my week to the most capitaliistic and exploitative industry in America: car sales. It didn't last very long. They kept me for 11 days. $50 detox drink to pass a drug test and $100 for my sales license down the drain.
The day I was canned I made moves on both of them. I had been making a half assed effort of seeing Fred, car salesman #1 who I was totally bored by after a couple of weeks. He was from the same suburb and worked side by side with Nico, car salesman #2 at the dealership that I was fired from . I reveled at the idea that my cell phone would ring and one guy would call me within ten minutes of the other from the exact same location. I was a self titled "dealership ho" acting out my newly unemployed frustrations on sexually inadequate car salesmen. Nico didn't call as consistently as Fred. (Fred shot himself in the foot by calling me everyday, which I can't stand.) Nico had presented himself as a smooth talking punk from day one. He was a car salesman from the inside out. He even had a New York accent! I had heard that he had four kids and was married, but of course he told me he only had one kid. The first time of two times that we went out, he told me he had a son, (he even showed me his photo on his phone) and the second time he swore he had a daughter. I may be a stoner and can hardly remember names, but I have an excellent memory for detail and an advanced ability to read people when they are lying. I soon began to realize that every single statement that came out of his mouth was inconsistent with a previous statement that I had heard and that this guy was painting himself out to be a pathological liar. The perfect ingredient for someone who could really do some damage to the right girl, but not this girl. This was just entertainment for me.