The Best Stories Never End With A Period

     Boy doesn't even meet girl. Boy is merely made aware of girl's existence via the interwebs a full year ago. Boy is really smitten and wants to know more about girl badly. Boy is made aware of her Twitter page, and since that page is private, he anxiously awaits her approval. Boy receives approval and finds girl to be candid, funny, insightful, intriguing, and unbelievably strong, yet vulnerable. Boy is definitely smitten now...

     Boy and girl get to know each other a little bit, and through a confluence of events, girl will be in boy's city so they set up a date. An issue at her job forces a rescheduling to a day with an insanely tight window of opportunity. Which, coincidentally happens to be, the day before her birthday. 

     Boy modifies hotel reservation, girl makes it to town, and the day arrives for their arranged tête-à-tête. During some point that morning, boy receives message:

"Well guess who started her monthly..." 

Boy sighs, but is accepting and undeterred. He simply knows where he isn't allowed to go on this day and still anxiously awaits their moment together. In an attempt to get an earlier check-in, he calls the hotel in the earl afternoon. But since boy sprung for a suite, and they clean those last, the window of their time together is still very tiny. A window that closed when she found herself locked out of the house she was staying in. She offered to pay to cover the costs of boy's hotel room, but boy declined the generous offer and merely wished her safe passage back home. Girl gives her word that she will make it up to him and boy takes her at her word. The girl is Charlotte Breeze, and she will always be treasured for exactly how she did just that.

     She tells me she's coming to town a few weeks ago and that she's bringing a friend who's new to her line of work and had never experienced my fair city. She asks if a particular day is good, and even if it wasn't, I'd be damned if it wasn't about to be. Because she was pretty intent on keeping her promise of making up to me our previous failed attempt at a rendezvous. You think I'm going to miss that? Click that link again. See the pics...read the words... Won't be me. CAN'T be me.

     The eve of our day arrives and naturally the most "Charlotte & Rashad" thing possible happens: After waiting all day to get a rental car, it's immediately wrecked. After accepting that "Murphy's Law" is simply part and parcel with how we get down, we simply push everything back a day. Our day and time finally arrives and we meet at a hip hotel in the heart of the city where I'm still bitter I paid $40 for parking. I get the room number and open the door where there are three beautiful women inside. The initial confusion vanished pretty quickly as the young lady I was completely unfamiliar with got the hell out of dodge after a cordial greeting, and I was formally introduced to the heartwarming smile, the sweet demeanor, and probing tongue of her absolutely delightful friend, Grace Collins.

     As Grace and I kissed with reckless abandon, Charlotte comes over and after a year of correspondence and logistical nightmares, this stunning woman is in my arms. We see each other's faces and hear each other's voices. We hear our breathing, feel our skin, and taste our lips. We open our eyes, look deep into each other's, and know how hard we both worked to make this moment happen. We are finally here...together...and these clothes are officially a hinderance.

     Grace and I again kiss like seventh graders as an assortment of hands work to remove my pesky outerwear. I lay on the bed and a brief discussion takes place between the ladies on whether or not a certain picture should be taken (as if what I bring to the soirée should be submitted to Ripley's). Then, as the smile struggled to detach itself from my face, and "Dress" by Sylvan Esso plays in the background, the ladies began to do things that produced some rather interesting sounds.

Oh, And There Were Sounds...

     The feminine coos of affection/encouragement. The guttural gurgling of efforts and tested limits in attempts to fit even just 1/8 more than last time. Their trademark "Ohhh, babyyyyy"s. The smacking of lips at varying degrees of pressure relinquishing contact with whatever skin it has bonded to. The slurping, or the spitting, or the muffled elation of a smothered face. My childish giggles as areas I've known to be ticklish were attended to. The buzzing of an electronic device...maybe two...creating the eye rolls & collapsed, slacked bodies typically associated with orgasmic euphoria. 

And There Were Collisions...

     Large Hadron collisions. The collisions that conclude with tennis grunts from both parties. The ones that make you make that face that she's not allowed to laugh at because it'll break your concentration. The collisions where you try to go *through* your partner, the bed, and the earth itself & reemerge in China. The collisions where your only goal is to be remembered because of soreness on Tuesday from the consequences of Saturday. 

And There Was Contact...

     Not just the more sudden, direct contact from the aforementioned lips, or even an unexpected hand around the throat. Not even the cat-o-nine tails Grace was playfully struck with as they both *occupied* a portion of my person that could bring them pleasure. But that slow, simmering, savory type of contact.  That "mellow jazz saxophone solo" contact. The delectable, indelible, friction of passion. The tortuous tracing of bodies with the softest, slowest, most sensual and deliberate pecks. The contact where hands are held and breathing synchronizes. The contact where Charlotte applies a spectacular hue of rouge lipstick and with her kisses, leaves the prints of flower petals around Grace's areola. The push-to-the-hilt-while-the-hips-tilt-simultaneously-at-a-snail's-pace-all-while-looking-longingly-into-each-other's-eyes...into their souls...kind of contact. This is the contact where people get in trouble by saying "I love you" before they want to because the moment's perfection has betrayed their logical sensibilities. The contact that aches in your mind long after the physical has worn off. We all shared THAT contact. 

     And all of it was awesome. The adolescent giggles, the visceral manifestations of lust, the laughter at my inability to open a bottle of water because of whatever filthy act-based concoction was on my hands, the horror stories of dates gone wrong while we showered. The connections...the connections...my God, the connections. The relief and the release of a few people's magnanimous nature crescendoing into the free-flowing dance of kinetic energies in that room; and no one had to say a word. We simply smiled. We trusted each other and we got to create something beautiful.

     It wasn't supposed to ever happen; her unavailability, my addiction struggles, the myriad of reasons for our inability to make our schedules match once we did actually try to get together, you name it. But it DID happen, and every time we thought about it, we were grateful, and we simply smiled, and we kissed, and we sighed, and we did whatever it took to give us a reason to smile and kiss again. It's arguably the happiest I've ever been, and that's the funny thing about my depression and lack of self-esteem...

     As of the writing of this, I am 33 years old. I've seen rock bottom on three separate occasions in my life, and amazingly enough, have had the resolve to be better on the back end of those instances. When comfortable and trusting I am wildly passionate, and when that occurs, there is no pain worth holding back your affection. But how many times can you push your chips all in and be that truly free? Only as often as you win or as often as you can reload your chips. For me, my twenties were filled with me crapping out on my big bets. So instead, I would try to hold onto the few chips I had. I self-preserved. My pain was spared because I offered no one the passion. I did not "live" in the true sense of the word, I merely existed. Sadly, all you grow accustomed to is your own voice protecting you from yourself and the only comfort offered is acclamation to mediocrity. YOU. DON'T. GROW. 

     Considering my last few experiences, I did not expect things to go well. I even warned them of the worst-case scenario. Yet when I arrived and throughout our time together, I was treated like a king and things went remarkably. I know there were times where things could have gone better. But the only one that seemed to be concerned with that was me, which made the reality of the matter clear: I'm not exactly the person I need to be listening to when it comes to my self-worth. I'm much better than I'll ever give myself credit for. Too many people whose opinion I respect, and frankly, know better than I do, have said things about me that I simply have not given a proper amount of gravity to in an attempt to keep myself grounded. Where that has kept me instead, is desolate. These beautiful women gave me the amazing gift of awareness and for the first time in ages, self-appreciation. That seems like a fair trade to me for a pair of Louboutins.

     At some point, we'll see each other again. Since we know a bit about each other, things will be even more fun, better, potentially smoother, and more than likely weirder. But it will never be clearer than this maiden voyage. It will always hold a special place in my heart and I don't know how to truly say thank you to them in the way that accurately shows my gratitude. But I can comfortably end this post with a period because we are nowhere near the end of our story. 

You Miss All The Shots You Don't Take

     There is an expression in reference to consequences be damned, always try. It's called "Shooting Your Shot". It's the mantra that allows a salesperson who can close a deal from cold calls would use. It's the type of logic that would allow a patron at Hooters to say a tired pick-up line to a waitress & presume she'll whisper in his ear that her shift is over in two more hours. It's a Molotov cocktail of ignorance & determination, and this story about shooting your shot is what makes it simultaneously spectacular & sad.

Forgive me for not recalling some of the particulars.

     About two years ago while traveling for work as a contractor, as I went to lunch, a phone number was written on a scrap of paper & tucked under my windshield wiper. I texted it and had a back and forth with a young lady for a week or so. She was Hispanic, in her early twenties, and very cute. Throughout this time, she was unrelenting in three things: 

1: Not answering the phone for an actual call.

2: No additional proof of her identity.

3: Requests for photos of my genitalia.

     At a certain point, I became incredibly annoyed, lashed out at they young lady, and informed her I would never be communicating with her again. While going through some text messages around Christmas of that year, I saw the last one I sent her and felt bad about that message. Though I can be a prick, it is not my preference to genuinely hurt people's feelings. I felt that the right thing to do was to call this young woman, and though things between us went sideways, wish her the best. The phone rings, I listen the effeminate "Hello?" of a male, and at that point I am certain he could hear the grin on my face reaching Cheshire-ish levels.

Got eem!

Me: I cannot be happier right now.

Him: Who is this?

Me: Oh...you KNOW who this is. Well, I hope you have a happy holidays, and I wish you the best! Take care!

     Within a few seconds, I receive some apologetic texts and what I thought were more interesting, requests to let bygones be bygones and see this thing through in a way that benefits him. He's not done shooting, but I'm certainly done respecting. Of the few things I don't find to be attractive characteristics in the women I would be willing to spend time with, at the top of the list would definitely be liars, and right above that would be NOT WOMEN. But, I am not unreasonable. I was absolutely willing to entertain his idea of my letting him slide on his deception and meeting him for the unequivocal best night I had to offer. I would have given him every bit of passion and every ounce of affection in my being. Hell, for the time we would be together, he might have even seen what could be misconstrued as love in the hands of the wrong person. All he had to do was come up with a paltry, dare I say meager, $100,000.

     Yup. Fella could've had the whole damn kit and caboodle for the low end of six figures. I should probably clarify a few things before continuing:

-Yes, I am aware of the fact that really isn't a lot of money in the big scheme of things.

-At the time, I had a judgement looming over my head that would have cost me around $400,000. I can do the math & see obviously that the first number isn't that number. But remember...

-Dude left his number on my car windshield outside of a major retailer. I was banking more on me pricing myself out as opposed to me low balling the number.

     Either way, I was (thankfully) right on me pricing myself out as he continued to try to haggle & knock down the number. I was steadfast in my determination to not negotiate with the lying male as six figures would've still been a bit of a struggle to come to terms with the "A Clockwork Orange" kaleidoscope of nightmarish imagery I would have subjected myself to for the remainder of my days. He eventually relented and we never spoke to each other again...

Until Tuesday, June 2nd, 2015 at 8:42am CST

Him: Hey.

Me: Hey!

...Forgive me, I don't know who this is.

Him: If you have kik, we can catch up. We used to text.

Me: Pleeeeease tell me you're in Baton Rouge.

Him: Lol. Why?

Me: Because I will know exactly who this is if you are.

Him: How lol. I don't think you do.

Me: Well then, what is your name?

Him: We didn't have the best friendship. You told me to gtf last time we texted a year over a year ago.

Me: There was probably a reason for that. More than likely because you lied from the beginning. I don't know too many good "friendships" that start with lies. You?

Him: No.

Me: So, what are you doing? Because you are struggling with the g'ing tf portion of gtf. 

Him: What do you mean what am I doing? And you really have a way with words lol

Me: I mean, why have you texted me again?

Him: Because I was in my old phone and saw the message and just thought I'd say hello.

Me: Well, hello back. I hope you're well. Don't reply to this or speak to me ever again.

Him: Wow.

Me: You're awful at following directions.

Him: I'm not. I just really want this to work out.

Me: I was clear about my terms.

Him: What can I do to fix this?

Me: Any of these will work:

1: Be who you originally purported yourself to be.

2: Come up with the number I told you I required to "fix this".

3: Disappear. 

Him: Are you mad as you "sound"?

And if I dropped two of the zeros, would that be enough?

Me: Am I not worth the other $99k to you?

Him: You are. But you're trying to break the bank.

Me: Uhhh, yeah.

Him: :-)

Me: So the next text you send me, ever, needs to consist of a picture of a check & a request for a PO Box. Otherwise, don't exist. Understood?

Him: IF I decided to do such and only drop one zero, you still wouldn't meet. And I definitely wouldn't send a check to anyone by p.o. box and risk getting screwed.

Me: I'm the one, more than likely, if you got what you're looking for, that would end up getting screwed. And I wouldn't do a damn thing with you if you dropped a zero. My terms have been clear. 

Him: So, you're saying if I pay the six figures you would?

Me: Yep. I would throw my pride out of the window & give a liar pretending to be something he is not, the absolute best time I have to offer.

Him: And your terms are really unbelievable. I guess money doesn't move you. Oh my goodness. I like the sound of the last part. And I'm not sure what you mean by pretending to be something. I'm not really not sure what you meant by that.

Me: What I meant was you pretended to be a female as a way to get to know me better. You should've just put a dollar amount on the paper. I do better with cash than I do with insincerity. 

Him: Well, since then I have learned to just be upfront with people. Can you forgive me? If I really knew I would blow all of my chances I never would have done that. But besides that, I don't do the pretend thing anymore.

Me: Sir, I have no desire to be with a man in any way that trends towards intimacy. However, I am not above a price. It appears that price is too steep for you, & that's fine. If this is purely about forgiveness, then fine, I forgive you. But, it has nothing to do with whether or not I wish to ever speak to you again. What does, is a large sum of money.

Him: I KNOW you have no desire to be intimate. That has been clear since day one. Are you interested in massage services one way or the other?

Me: I

AM

INTERESTED

IN

MOTHER

FUCKING

CASH

SIR

Him: How much cash?

Me: Six figures. Don't play dumb.

Him: Im not giving anyone on this planet that kind of money for one experience. Nobody does that.

Me: Agreed. It definitely appears as though I've priced myself out of us having any kind of experience.

Him: You have.

Me: Que sera, sera.

Him: Whatever will be, will be.

Me: Lose my number.

Him: Okay.

     This is the last I've heard from this person. Hopefully, it continues to be the last I hear from them. I have a lot of respect for people who are relentless. It is a trait that I wish I had more of in my personality because I know I'd be more successful in my endeavors. However, there is a problem when one can't see that their unrelenting is flat-out harassment and abusive. This was fun and funny and I'm happy to share it with anyone who reads it. But there are many times where people are put in somewhat similar situations that aren't nearly as amusing and are definitely more dangerous. It wasn't my intention to turn this into an after school special, but it's a real problem and I hope it gets addressed more often than it does. In the meantime, fingers crossed that fella never hits the lottery. Yeesh...

My Rose By Any Other Name

     I originally wrote this in November of 2013. It was removed at the request of my friend that it is referencing because she preferred her name not be in it. She's told me since that she'd be okay with it being posted if I removed her name from it & I'm finally getting around to doing the necessary revisions. I think this post helps to give the "Passion, Affection..." post more context. I hope you enjoy.

"What is success? I think it is a mixture of having a flair for the thing that you are doing; knowing that it is not enough, that you have got to have hard work and a certain sense of purpose."

-Margaret Thatcher

    

     If you have the right people around you and can exhibit a lot of patience and perseverance, you can make a lot of progress in a short period of time. When I started this particular phase in my journey of self-discovery in August, my primary goal was and continues to be, "Be capable of pleasuring future girlfriend through learning and experience." Thus, everything I do has centered around that specific goal. Books have been purchased and read, exercises central to being more effective during that experience are performed, and multiple countries have been traversed to learn under the tutelage of brilliant and beautiful teachers (for a nominal fee). I have had very positive experiences so far, but I have had yet to experience a "successful" one. Perfectly valid explanations find themselves muddled into the same proverbial psychological brackish water as excuses and constructive criticisms play back in my head like a loop of ineffectiveness. Learning, coaching, planning, trying, all center in on one goal, winning. I hadn't won yet. Though I'd only been with two people, I still felt like I was a well coached, fundamentally sound, 0-26. I needed a victory, damn it. I needed a "1". My "1" was experienced on a chilly November evening in Chicago, my "1" has some of the softest porcelain skin imaginable, and my "1" appreciates alliteration as an effective marketing tool. My "1" is Rose.

     I found Rose twice, actually. Once while traversing the the Twitter-verse's "Similar To" section where a thumbnail of a leggy brunette eating grapes caught my attention enough to see a picture posted with the slogan, "Save a lollipop, suck a dick." That brand of humor would have garnered an immediate booking but I had already booked an appointment for my first trip to Chicago. Sadly, I had to wait. The other time was while looking for information on another provider on a review board. Someone created a year-end best-of list and someone else chimed in, "I would give an honorable mention to Rose for best rim job." Any woman willing to do that (though not my particular cup of Earl Grey), is a woman I'm willing to research a bit further. Lo and behold! A leggy brunette, a bunch of grapes, and a funny picture about using fellatio to preserve candy quantities. We have a match, and I have a new provider.

     I set my appointment with her for November 2nd. I would fly into Chicago, drop off my things at the hotel, get dropped off at her incall, and have a nice time. A bird somewhere over East Texas decided that plan wasn't filled with enough drama, so it became a tragedy of modern convenience. R.I.P. bird, R.I.P. right engine, R.I.P. hour or so buffer to a layover in Houston so they can switch out planes. I call to explain the situation when I land and was able to get our tryst postponed another hour but once we make it to the hotel, it is a mad dash to get there on time. I do, I call, she lets me in, and she looks so beautiful, all new client hyperventilation is met with acceptance and understanding. 

     She leads me to her condo in a very cool Chicago suburb, offers me a water, and I begin to walk the tightrope between whining about my day and simply expounding on my journey and why/how it led me to her. She then led me to her bedroom where we discussed a lovely portrait of Josephine Baker she bought for a song, and was followed immediately by us kissing like high school sophomores and lying down on her bed for a good ol' fashioned romp between the sheets. I did everything in my power to ruin the moment by searching throughout my personal effects for the condoms I bought with me, only to realize after the search they were in my back pocket. But after that debacle, we were ready to go. 

     I knew of a few of her tattoos. Though with me not being a tattoo guy, per se (as I discuss in "I Can't Stop Watching..."),I knew this was going to be an interesting experience. As I asked about each tattoo and its story, I found them to be disjointed if using the body as a canvas, yet in perfect locales if going from one to the next in a "Rose's Markings & Meaningful Moments" tour. I got to hear every story except for I believe the left shoulder because I got sidetracked with allowing my lips/tongue to delight in every contour of her petite, curvaceous frame. When she had enough of my reveling, she took to her favorite position and grinded out a masterpiece that left her body slacked and our breathing heavy. The day was November 2nd, 2013, the attempt was my third, and I, Rashad Clark, was finally responsible for a woman's climax. We rolled over, we kissed, and I asked her if she could believe she was first with which I experienced tangible success. She giggled, "I find that hard to believe." The smile couldn't leave my face.

     Though an important milestone was reached, familiar problems were finding their way back into my life. At this point, Rose took matters into her own hands...and mouth...and introduced me to the world of the female condom. Once it was inserted, and subsequently, I was inserted, a pas de deux took place that in my very limited mind's eye rivaled anything put together by Robert Joffrey himself. I WORKED, America. Not only did I work, but I worked when I needed to work. There was this vision of perfection looking me in the face, I had to perform, and for the first time, I finally did. Spoiler alert: It was awesome. We fucked. When we didn't fuck, we kissed. When we didn't kiss, we talked. When we didn't talk, we made love passionately. We flowed together pretty effortlessly, give or take a time or two where she told me "Don't stop." and I had to fight through a Charlie horse. Or the very bittersweet moment where she gritted her teeth because I went too deep. Mea culpa, Rose. We left her bedroom and turned her living room couch into our very own Elysium. With a few minutes left in my time with her, she knelt in front of me and did everything within the power of her dominant arm to get me off. I responded in kind. What happened next was a whirlwind of lust, heavy breathing, passion, and willpower as the lactic acid buildup in my forearm almost trumped my desire to see her climax one last time...ALMOST. She professed her intentions, shuddered appropriately, refocused after the wave of orgasm traversed through her body, and went back to work on me as best she could until her arm got tired. I kissed her like she succeeded anyway. Rose rules. We got dressed, took a picture together that my parents wouldn't be able to comprehend, and as my ride was double-parked, I kissed her farewell.

“When we don’t put the brakes on our self-absorption, we have nothing stopping us from total self-destruction. We become the fruits of our actions.” 

-Zeena Schreck

      

     The only responsible thing I can compare the next events to is the feeling generated from seeing Peter Parker strutting to "Stayin' Alive" in Spider-Man 3. As far as I was concerned, I had this thing figured out. I was an arrogant jackass that didn't need to do any of the things I had done with any regularity anymore. "Perfectly Functional Sexual Partner" could be crossed off the list and now we can move on to advanced classes, parlor tricks, things of that nature.  Good teams don't tear down the goalposts when they go 2-14. You have to win consistently & I forgot that. I had another weekend in Chicago and since I'd never been with the same woman twice, I made another appointment. No reading, no exercising, no brushing up, no nothin'. After only three experiences, I got this. I am a walking definition of hubris and I was an unstoppable force of unwarranted confidence that was about to have a head-on collision with an immovable object.

"Momentum is the next day's starting pitcher."

-Earl Weaver 

     She opens the door and of course looks astonishing in a lacy white dress and blush pink heels. We sit on the couch and talk music and laugh about politicians and run the gamut of potential topics before once again kissing up a storm. Within two kisses...TWO...DAMN...KISSES...my body reacts. But there is no need to rush because I got this. We head into the bedroom and she removes her dress to reveal an understated but unbelievably sexy (I believe it was but the room was candlelit) burgundy bra and panty set that contrasted brilliantly with her alabaster skin. She lies back on the bed and before her panties can fully uncover her unmentionables, I turn into Steve freakin' Zissou...because I got this. Her coaching turned what would have been an overzealous exercise in futility into a pleasurable experience for the both of us. After some trial and error, I found a rhythm she could enjoy and after utilizing that rhythm for a while, her body tensed...and crescendoed with shuddering convulsions. That's another one off the "I've never done THAT before" list. I totally got this.

     Because Rose is a lady, she begins to reciprocate in a similar action to how I pleasured her. It feels exactly as amazing as I expected it to but the facts are what they are. At this point in my life, I don't have a substantial grace period between "I got this." and "I ain't got a God damn thing." As she gets on top, not only is the bloom off the flower, the flower is wilting, and I ready my concession speech. That night was simply not to be. We kiss and cuddle. She gives me an incredibly caring back massage. We simply connect some more and overall have an awesome time. But the reality remains that my hubris cost us an opportunity to do something special. I bid her a fond farewell and proceed to go to Molly's Bakery & binge eat six cupcakes like the fat girl that I am.

"Healthy discontent is the prelude to progress."

-Gandhi

     One of the coolest parts about a really good kiss is the moment where both parties, for lack of a better term, "recalibrate". They catch their breath, reopen their eyes, assess what happened, and figure out their next move. The longer that moment takes, the more indelible that kiss was. I felt it some years back in a seedy motel with a beautiful young woman in Tennessee and God knows I felt it with Mona. When Rose and I kissed, there was a ton of recalibrating. The air in the room was thick with undeniable chemistry and, in my opinion, a touch of regret. We clicked too well to only have such a short period of time to appreciate each other the way we did. If money weren't an issue, I'm sure she'd forbid me from acquiring her for less time than an overnight. There's too much to talk about and listen to. There's too many places to touch and to taste for 180 minutes to be enough. 
     When you're around someone worth opening up to your very core for and there's only enough time to scratch the surface, it's disheartening; and her tone when she told me I had BETTER let her know when I made it back to Chicago let me know that she felt similarly. She doesn't offer a "girlfriend" experience. She offers a "Wait...there's a world outside of this room?" experience, and one of those times my arrogance and subsequent lack of preparation got in the way of that experience. We will see each other again because I am not content with how I left that condo. I owe it to myself and to her, I owe it to that look in her eyes and mine when I couldn't stay longer. But for no other reason, she deserves to see how good I could be and I look forward to getting there. 

We want me to win.

"Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm."

-Winston Churchill

Passion, Affection, Extortion, & Lament: A non-traditional happy birthday letter.

I've worked on this post since late August of last year...

     Every time I start to write it, my eyes water, and I take a moment to re-read her words. The pain is undeniable with each sentence. Yet, by the end of her beautiful words, I feel more invigorated than when I started. I think subconsciously, if I finally write this, it closes this chapter of my life and I fear that. I don't want to let go of the reminders: Audrey Hepburn with a long-stem cigarette, wispy Stella McCartney designed underthings, vegan culinary masterpieces, to name a few. I like that they...she...demands a place in my memory. I've written about this woman here before & for full context will repost it. But this will focus on our last meeting together.

     I got the opportunity to visit Chicago again last June for work. We shared correspondence & made a date for the Saturday I had free at a Chinese noodle shop she recommended. When she sat down, her beauty was radiant but her eyes could not hide the despondency she had for her current occupation. She had, at that point, enough of the problems that came with her job: The male chauvinism, the crooks, & the misogyny that runs rampant (even in work situations that are supposed to allow her to feel some sort of protection) would drive a regular person nuts, let alone a person with her level of empathy. Because of how toxic her environs were, this elegant flower was wilting from the inside-out. My friend was in pain.

     We spent a sizable amount of the date venting. I think it just felt good for both of us to look someone in the eyes we knew wasn't full of crap that cared about what the other was experiencing. We then had the most amazing walk with a light chill in the Chicago air. We talked about her tote bag & how her dad would get into email quarrels with members of the Westboro Baptist Church. We talked about race matters in a way & at a volume that made others around us just a little uncomfortable. We had fun in a way I think both of us needed to badly. Our connection was limited by our circumstances, but it was certainly no less authentic.

     After we get settled in her condo, we relax on the couch & she takes a few bites of a vegan cupcake as I finally begin to unbox the gifts I'd been waiting a month to bestow upon her. As that is happening, she takes off her ballet flats, wiggles her toes, shoots me this incredibly coy look, & slyly says, "...And these are for youuuuu...I got them pedicured yesterday!" 

*sigh*

Let's backtrack a little bit...

     The first time we met, I had a lady friend who was very intrigued by her & wanted to know how the date went. I figured the best way to do that was with a picture. The problem, however, was in our height disparity. So there was no way to take the pic without her identity being compromised and that simply could not happen. So, as she laid on the couch with her feet in my lap, I did what any red-blooded American male would do in that situation and showed a little attention to the fellas who may or may not have gone to market and/or had varying amounts of roast beef. SHE took that moment to explain how everyone wins when someone has a foot fetish. I, sadly had to stop what I was doing to take the following moment to explain I don't HAVE a foot fetish and as I commenced working on the fellas crying "Wee, wee, wee.", I saw a camera flash. Fast-forward to a few days before our dalliance, and I close out my email to her with, "I can't wait for the opportunity to share another moment like this one with you again:" accompanied by a copy of the only picture we have together. It's easy to see how she got the upper hand with this situation...

"I know what you're doing, young lady..."

     So as I'm performing any and all adjectives involved with affection to her delightful lower extremities, she has the audacity to say, nonchalantly, as she takes another bite from her cupcake, "Like I said, I mean, YOU get the pleasure of having this fetish... I get the pleasure of YOU having this fetish...everybody wins!" As she shoots me this look that could only be described as "Checkmate, motherfucker.", I just conceded. I know I don't have a fetish. But at that moment, she could've said I like ladyboys & I probably would've agreed with her. 

     We moved to the bed where more traditional erogenous zones were paid real attention & then she simply decided that she was going to make it crystal clear that tonight was her show. She then told me to lay on my side where she could get into a position to see to it I could never fight her on this topic again. Because as I'm in the midst of euphoria when her voice would be muffled, when her vocal cords aren't restricted, she's telling me how worked up I'm getting about my fetish as she jams her feet in my face. Know when to fold 'em, kids. If a person that makes you feel that good extorts you into having a foot fetish, at least with THAT person, own it. To this day, it's one of the slickest power swaps I've ever seen, and I was honored to be played like a piano. It was an amazing experience that due to my own shortcomings did not have many more highlights to speak of. But afterwards, there is one moment that replays in my head over & over again:

     I'm on the couch and she asks me if I smoke. I tell her I do not. She then asks me if I mind if she smokes. I tell her I don't mind at all. It was a lie. I honestly detest smoking. I hate the smell of it, I hate how it ravaged the bodies of my grandparents, I hate the effect it has on my sinuses. So I'm on the couch & she's at the window, she takes a drag of the cigarette, blows it out, and the smile doesn't want to leave my face. My disdain for smoking pales in comparison to the way she makes me feel. It's an unbelievable feeling to have a connection like that and I'm honored to say that I had it. But the reality is creeping in. The sadness is finding its way back into our eyes. We can't just stay there all night & make each other laugh, or relax, or smile. We have to go back to our lives. She offered to bring me back to my hotel, but we realized she'd have to go through a pretty rough part of town, accepted that this was it, probably forever for us, and commenced with the most emotionally bittersweet kisses I've ever experienced.

     We stayed in touch somewhat & she did everything she could to stay in her line of work, but it finally overwhelmed her, and she had to leave. It hurt me that she was hurt that way; that they broke this beautiful woman, who gave her whole heart to these savages who could not appreciate her or her narrative. They have moved on while she hurt. They won't look at the pain they cause because they feel they've done nothing wrong and their lack of self-awareness cost me a friend that was one of the major reasons I'm happy to live again. But even though she is not in my life, she is alive, she is resilient, she is brilliant. She is other-side-of-the-pillow cool, she is one of the most amazing people I know, she is unforgettable, and today, she is 32 years young.

     Happy birthday, my friend. I hope you've been able to make progress towards seeing the light of a better day through your difficult time. You will always have my appreciation & a special place in my heart. I'm eternally grateful for your presence in my life, completely regardless of how fleeting those moments seemed to be. Take solace in knowing that the woman, the wit, the charm, and the understated elegance that make you who you are has been and will always be in the forefront of my memories. You are loved. With passion and affection, and with all my heart, I wish you only the best.

Farewell,

Rashad Clark

The Subtle Difference Between a Prostitute And An Escort

Generic Person: So, you're going to see a prostitute?
Me: No, I'm going to see an escort.
GP: But you're paying for sex.
Me: No. That's illegal. I'm paying for this person's company. What they choose to do in my company is completely at their discretion.
GP: Why don't you just hook up with a woman at a bar or get a fuck buddy?
Me: Because I don't want to go to a bar and I don't want a fuck buddy. This is not some quest to maximize the amount of times I can get off. I have problems and I am seeking the help of professionals. I put in effort and energy. I am working towards getting better. They help because they get it. I explain the problem and it doesn't phase them. Bar girl can be phased. Fuck buddy can be phased. I will treat the woman I'm with like a treasure because I don't know any other way to do it and we will find a way to make it work so that I can improve, and I will continue to do so until I feel comfortable enough in that aspect of my life to deal with individuals that aren't professionals. 
     To a degree, that is the conversation that I have at some point with someone in every new place I go. It's shortened because I still haven't gone into the nervous breakdown stuff on this blog yet. People have a very close-minded view of the world as it pertains to paying for companionship, be it due to religious beliefs, simple frugality, or a myriad of reasons that lie in between. I feel as though it's helped me and though I have a long way to go, I'm moving in the right direction. I'll probably have more stories soon involving my adventures in hobbying but what I never plan on doing is referring to the individuals I see as prostitutes. It's a label that I don't feel does these ladies justice the same way that escort does. I'll use these two recent examples as an explanation of each word's definition.
     Dateline: October 11, 2013.  At this point, I had only known this person for two weeks yet I found myself embarking on a four hour road trip to Vegas with him. Probably because I wasn't made aware that the reason everyone else bailed on the plan to go to Vegas was because he wasn't really liked...at all...by anybody... His primary goal for this day was to have the most debaucherous Vegas day he could have. He can't wait to hit the blackjack tables. He's looking forward to the seedy strip clubs. He's on Backpage while we're in the hotel's check-in line. He is ready to "turn up"! I just want more than two damn hours of sleep.
     By the time we make it to the room he's narrowed his choices down for the first time he will pay for the companionship of a beautiful women between two ads: Girl A & Girl B. Though one of his lifetime fantasies could be fulfilled by being with an Asian woman, he was still so torn by the choice that I suggested he flip a coin. After enlisting the help of our great nation's 34th President, Girl B was chosen. The phone call was made and though it sounded like everything was okay, there was just enough of a something that was off about it which raised some concerns with the newcomer.
Him: What if I get mugged?
Me: Then we'll have to get you to a hospital and you would have the experience of paying to be mugged instead of the other experience you thought you paid for.
Him: ...That's not helping to calm me down!
Me: But it is honest. You are taking a risk. The same way that she is. The way that you hope to not be mugged or drugged and stuck in a hotel to fend for your life is the same way she's hoping that you don't use her skin to make a new jacket lining. If it all works out, she'll be compensated and you will have your experience.
If I can ever help it, I'll never be that right again.
     We drive over to the hotel where she told him to meet at the scheduled time and I drop him off and wait in the parking lot. After arriving promptly an hour plus after the scheduled start time due to "traffic", two very important points are bought to his attention (not mine yet because I'm on chauffeur duty):
1-They won't be rockin' at the main hotel at the Palace Station hotel and casino on this lovely evening. Au contraire! They'll be utilizing the Courtyard Hotel at the Palace Station.
2-That something off in the voice that was heard during the phone call? Oh, that was eight years of life. Eight years of hard, Vegas, Backpage heavy, life. In an instant, that young, delicious, 21 year old became a simply not so young and not so delicious 29 year old.
     After seeing that her age had been..."doctored", he chose to stay. After realizing that the hour of tardiness probably had less to do with traffic and more to do with her roommate who was also in the business of "companionship" was currently occupying the room, he chose to stay. After seeing that turn around time was more of a priority than clean up because the previous patron's unwrapped condom was still near the head of the far side of the bed to be used, he probably should've bailed but did not. Besides, the concession offered of simply halfing the bed so that the used condom could play the role of voyeur as opposed to grabbing a garbage bag, using it like a mitten, and doing the animal poop bag invert move almost demands that you see where this ride is bound to take you. According to his account of the evening's events, where it took them was pretty audacious. My thoughts are italicized:
Him: You have condoms?
Liar: ... No, I don't have any more condoms.
Wait a second. This bitch made him wait an hour and in that time, she couldn't stop at a CVS and grab a three pack?
Him: Okay...
Liar: Well... I mean...we're both adults here, right?
No, nigga! No! We're not both adults here! You were an hour late, you padded your age by nearly a decade, and you're alluding to hands down, what may be the most absurd idea in history!
Him: Well...I know I'm clean... (he shoots her a presumptive look)
Liar: I certainly know I'm clean!
     When he reappeared from an event that would have been lauded by Andre Breton, he walked to the car in a daze that I can only liken to the one Charlie Brown takes in A Charlie Brown Christmas. He is stunned by what has occurred. He's hurt and angry at being deceived. He would have preferred to have been mugged. At least that way he could extol about his newly acquired red badge of courage through this deception. But that was not to be. All of the things that happened to him that evening were on him and none of them bought about anything more than feelings of shame and regret. $160 got him a terribly unprofessional experience, a lackluster story, a pretty good reason to be concerned for his health, and about half a blog post for me. Not exactly the best possible return on investment. By my definition, my co-worker was with a prostitute.
     A mere eight days later, I'm in Seattle about to see a woman whom I've written about sporadically on this blog. A woman whose effortless humor, sardonic wit, and incredibly toned legs have captivated my Twitter page and iPhone wallpaper since mid-July. I get to go to Canada and look Mona in her eyes. Which almost didn't happen because in between my connecting flight in Salt Lake City, UT, I receive Mona's message and it informs me that her day is almost completely booked. I subsequently panic and go to make the appointment right then and there, but I then panic again and hang up because of the fear involved with saying the wrong thing around four adolescent children. I wait for the plane to allow the passengers off of it and make my appointment which was a fabulously discreet process. I get to the hotel and spend the night at some pretentiously swanky digs in a pretentiously swanky city and prep for what will be an amazing day.
     I head to the station to board the ferry into Victoria, British Columbia and I'm excited and nervous. I get my boarding passes and I'm anxious and I'm intrigued. I pat my back pocket and I'm forgetful; oh sweet Jesus, I forgot my passport at the hotel! I call one cab company in the area and they calmly explain to me that it will take them a half hour to get to me as a gypsy cab is pulling up. I've got twenty minutes to make it there and back or this trip is for naught. Fuck reputability.
Me: Can you take a fare?
Cabbie: Yes.
Me: Hotel Max & back. How long?
Cabbie: Fifteen minutes.
Me: Turn this Lincoln into the Mach 5, hoss! Let's bounce!
     As we begin our journey, a train is headed in our direction that forces us to haul an additional level of ass to beat out before the railroad crossing sticks come down and stop this trip before it even starts. But I believe in this driver. He's flashing his brights to turn red lights green, he's utilizing a lighter than usual adherence to speed limits, he's getting the job done. He gets me back to the hotel very quickly, I move hastily back to the hotel room, grab the passport and move with what I felt was an equal level of haste back to the cab. We are high tailing it back to the ferry and are going to make it there without a hitch when, of course, there's a hitch. The train we had to beat to get to the hotel is still going and is so long it is stopping us from getting back to the dock.
Cabbie: How much more time?
Me: Eleven minutes.
Cabbie: It ought to be ending soon...like this one ought to be the last car...riiiiiight here...
Me (ten rail cars later): ...
Cabbie: ... How much more time?
Me: Six minutes.
As the final rail car passes, he cuts somebody in a van off that if the situation was different, I'd feel sorry for. But on that day, at that moment, they weren't human beings with feelings. They were obstacles in the way of me seeing someone that meant a lot to me. I got to the ferry in time and all I could think about was how much effort and how many times my mother has tried to get me to go with her and the rest of the family on a cruise to the Caribbean. I say no before the sentence is finished, let alone the sales pitch. One beautiful woman makes me laugh or fills me with intrigue in 140 characters or less and I'm on a boat to Canada in mid-October. I guess I'm a little different in that regard.
     We dock in Victoria Harbour and since it's a Sunday and I have a few hours to kill, I ask the cab driver to bring me to a place with American football. He does so by bringing me to the Irish Times Pub. I have not eaten everywhere nor do I claim to be a food critic with proper credentials. But I'm daring someone to place a better item on their soup menu than their Westcoast Chowder. Don't even waste your time with a cup. It's insulting. Get a bowl and allow the flavors of sea based happiness to roll over your palate. It tasted so good, I was almost not annoyed with the fact that I had to watch the Montreal Alouettes crush the Hamilton Tiger Cats in the Canadian version of American football...that cabbie was a jerk...
     It was also here that I met Julian. A truly cool as hell bartender that I was able to have some fabulous conversation with while 2 pm couldn't get here fast enough. He offered me some Tabasco sauce for my soup without knowing I was from New Orleans and from there, we just hit it off. We talked about how no one misses humidity and how he will always hold a special place in my memory for being my first authentic Canadian "Eh?". He has this very daring vacation plan next summer to fly in to San Francisco with his girlfriend, rent a car, and drive the coast of the US to the Florida Keys in three weeks. Bravery lives in Victoria, and apparently wears a kilt. He offered me some of their apple cider and I'm typically not one to say not to "delicious" or for that matter, "free" so I take a glass. I blow on it and wait a few seconds for the cider to cool down and just like that, my precious taste buds are dead. It's scalding hot. Someone inadvertently left the cider on too high of a warming temperature but not hot enough to bring it to a boil. It was delicious once an ice cube was added to the glass, it was free now if it wasn't before, but a friendship lost its innocence that day...
Julian: Did I burn you? Oh, shit! I'm sorry man!
Me: It's okay. Not my first rodeo.
Julian: Are you going to be alright?
NO! I'M NOT GOING TO BE OKAY! NOT TODAY! NOT THIS! I NEED THIS! IT'S MY TONGUE! I'M NOT WELL ENOUGH YET TO NOT DO TONGUEY THINGS, MAN! THIS IS MONA WE ARE TALKING ABOUT! I ALMOST MISSED MY DAMN BOAT! ET TU, JULIAN?! BEWARE FIVE DAYS AFTER THE IDES OF OCTOBER! THERE IS A WITCH AMONGST THEE!!! 
Me: Yeah. I'll be fine.
     I left the pub and just walked around the city while awaiting my appointment, experiencing some of the fabulous amenities Victoria has to offer like a Starbucks within the same field of view of another Starbucks and getting back Canadian change when paying for something in American cash. I didn't have an issue with this one because it's a road game for me & I have to play by their rules. It was just really different. With a half hour to go before my appointment, I had to call to get the address. Once I have it, I'll use the ol' phone GPS to get where I need to go without a hitch. But there's a hitch. There's always a hitch. There has to be a hitch. My data connection isn't working at all. The occasional text has made it through and I can send/receive calls but it is simply not logging on to anything. No email, no Twitter, no Facebook, most importantly no Google Maps, no nothing. So I do what any self-respecting gentleman would do in this situation and go to the bookstore across the street and ask the oldest man there if he can get me the number to a cab in the area. Thankfully, they cannot find their phone book and the clock is ticking. Oy fucking vey. 
Me: Well, do you know where So-And-So Street is?
Old Book Guy: Oh, sure that's only a few blocks that way. What number?
Me: 500 block.
Old Book Guy: Certainly. When you hit that street, take a left. You didn't even need a cab.
When in doubt in a different country, always get info from the old guy in a book store. I only have a small sampling to go off of, but so far, every one of them has been clutch in getting me helpful information.
     I make it to my destination with a few minutes to spare, get let in and go up a mildly unnerving flight of stairs and ring the doorbell to hear the always exhilarating click of a pair of heels and the opening of a giant metal door. "You look cuter than I expected." Oh...my...God...It's her. It's really her. For me to appropriately pine for this woman in the way that is the most fair, I'm going to need some theme music. This ought to do it...
     Mona, the witty little minx with blonde hair and highlights that were kissed by the sun itself. The woman whose eyes captivate as much of my attention as her links to science articles do. Her perkiness isn't insincere. Her coolness isn't pretentious. She's awesome, she knows it, and yet she doesn't come across as unapproachable. Mona rules. *Music off* "Okay, I don't have on any panties and I haven't had time to strap up my heels. You're early." *Music on* Hark! My muse's words are an elixir to this weary traveler's ears! *Music off* I pick a room, hand her my credit card, and relax as she deals with the particulars of the business side of these wonderful interludes.
     She comes back, fully underdressed and strappy heeled like the professional she is, we exchange small talk about my obnoxiously tiny shower and her cat named after not exactly the coolest possible Battlestar Galactica fighter pilot. We talk about my disappointment that she got a new phone before I had a chance to see the ol' Blackberry (Just no damn loyalty in Canada anymore...).We mocked how bad regular radio was. We have a toast and eat a S'muffin (which I had to keep refrigerated by placing the pack in the sink and dumping bucket after bucket of ice into the basin) and just have fun. 
     We made out like we were high schoolers. I requested that she elaborate on a point she made during a time that we were both in a position where it was difficult for either party to focus on the topic at hand, yet she still made one of the most fantastic references I've ever heard (I'll never look at a woman at a cocktail party enjoying an hors d'oeuvres the same way again.). She saw I was struggling with putting on her new gift and though I didn't explain that since I was burned, doing something like buckling the strap of a pump used to be impossible so I don't care how long it takes if I can get it done, she simply offered to help. When I asked her if she had any condoms, she replied, "Of course! You never have to worry about that with me!" Which was then followed by more touching and tasting and giggling and expletive-laced investigative inquiries like, "Where the fuck are my condoms?" as she rummaged through a small purse. While I continued to explore, I couldn't help but ask if she still couldn't find them. "Well, yeah, I did but I didn't really want that to stop." Best possible visual to describe confidence level?

     She understood my situation with my addiction and made me feel comfortable, regardless of the outcome. She shared stories of her experiences. She cared. She rules. A friendly reminder knock on the door was used to let us know that my time with my muse was up and I gave her a good bye kiss...which became a big good bye kiss...which was fabulously intense. So intense in fact, that after we were done, I cursed the heavens and grabbed her hand and placed it right below my belt. "Dude, do you have the worst timing in history?" Yes, Mona. Yes I do.
     I received my orders to just practice and don't worry about it. I know that one day, I'll sort out all of these things. But it would be foolish to say that I'm in no way deterred by my performance even though the reality is she's literally the 2nd partner I've had in my 31 years on this planet. I've given her my word that I will come back and she'll get a better me and I am working very hard to make that happen. She is this really fun, quirky, firecracker of animal magnetism. What makes her sexy isn't just her appearance or her passion. It's her zeal for life itself that comes through in her work and her time with you. I was just as happy looking into her eyes as I was watching her writhe on top of my face (which isn't the fairest simile because technically I could still look her in the eyes). Inconsistencies were explained, moments were shared, and a smile couldn't possibly leave my face while there. She saw me out and gave me a hug goodbye which might have gotten her lips and neck some additional attention and as I left, I couldn't help but wish that a motherfucker would try to put a dent into just how fabulous my experience was in Victoria.
     Soon thereafter, I got back on the ferry to Seattle and once I hit the States, I received a message that I will hold dear to my heart for years to come. I felt wanted and appreciated. Not in the strip club sense of "She's trying to keep me here longer to get more money." but in the sense of, "She wanted to make sure I knew what this time meant to her." To be honest, it meant so much to me that while writing the original draft of this on the airplane back home from Seattle and reminiscing about some of the nuances and details of my appointment, I became teary-eyed. If you can experience that for free, more power to you. But I have no problem being charged a premium for that. By my definition, what I was lucky enough to experience is an escort.
     I have no issue with Backpage (in fact, my co-worker ended up having a fabulous time with a few young ladies when we made it back to LA) but, I do have a major issue with being a sucker. I love that I can use Twitter to vet the escorts I would potentially see because personality matters. If all you have to offer is your body, you can keep it to yourself. I'm not looking for prostitutes. I'm am here and in this lifestyle to get better and to heal the tremendous amount of damage I've done to myself over the years. I'm not looking for a fuck buddy or some random ho to just throw my dick into. I'm not looking for a relationship until I'm comfortable enough with myself. I'm looking for a few people I can share a moment or two with, that can teach me some things that demand to be field tested, that love to laugh, and can appreciate a pair of pumps. If that costs a few bucks, here's my card, don't call them a prostitute, and tell me where I need to sign. Because as a beautiful young lady once told me while putting her hair up in a ponytail prior to being incredibly accommodating (as escorts tend to be), "Shit's about to get real." *Music on*

Melissa, Carmen, & Meg or Cake Pops, S'muffins, Steak, & Sweet Potatoes

     It's been a little while since I've written anything here. To be fair, I predominantly blog about my life and sex in relation to my life and since I've reluctantly given up porn, there has been that much less sex to talk about. However, my job has sent me to Southern California for a few weeks and I've come across some spectacular food. So let's just see how much range I have...

     Dateline: July 2012. I receive an email about muffin-sized s'mores and subsequently lose my damn mind. I haven't had a s'more since I was a wee li'l tyke. But $55 after shipping is a rough sell for a confectionary that I'll be enjoying by my lonesome. Fast forward a mere fifteen months and God finds a way to do right by a fella. It is officially s'muffin time! Except on Sundays and Mondays which forced me to implement a colon before an open parenthesis on all of my social media updates. Otherwise known as a sad face.

     Dateline: The Tuesday after not being able to go on Sunday or Monday. After working overnight and having the stench of specialty confectionary conquest failure permeating my every thought, a few co-workers and I hit the road for forty minutes...FORTY DAMN MINUTES to get our hands on a dozen of these damn s'muffins and we were still an hour early because the same food lust (flust?) that demands you don't check a shop's availability on a Monday is the same flust (...nah, food lust) that allows you to repeat that mistake the next day. With an hour to burn, it was only natural to kill some time in the local smoke shop and since I don't smoke, it was only that much more natural to not have anything to do. Thirty down, my buddies are happy, thirty to go, and we meet Melissa.

     We enter Melissa's lovely establishment, Essential Chocolate Desserts, and in-between a delightfully warm exchange of cordiality and a surreal lack of self-control on my part, I pick out EIGHT different cake truffles. There was blueberry, carrot cake, chocolate peanut butter, chocolate covered in milk chocolate, red velvet, something involving lemon I don't remember, and they all had the same thing in common: with every bite, I hated Melissa. I hated Melissa because I knew she owned me. With every concurrent gnaw of my molars, I lost control of another string. To say that her treats are rich is borderline insulting. Her baseline is decadent and from there, she begins ascension. Yet nothing I ate was overwhelming or "too" anything. She was even kind enough to give me a cup of milk with my order to help wash down the shame of pre-noon, mini-cake binging. On that day, Melissa from Essential Chocolate Desserts became my chocolate Geppetto, which, if she was a black male into D/s play, I'd have far larger issues to discuss. The clock struck noon and though I adored the company of my chocolatier domina, it was time to part ways as my confectionary quest was centered around Carmen.

     Carmen Lindner is the proprietress of Gotta Have S'mores, which, fifteen months ago I received an email about and vowed to try. That vow would be honored on this day. Though they can be shipped, the few retailers that carry them predominately deal in singles and half-dozens. The only one I saw that also sold them by the dozen was the Platine Bakery down the street from my newly beloved Melissa and since I'm not a punk, that's where we went. If you include the hype from the email I got, the anticipation that came from not getting them the previous day, and the moderately lingering trance I was still under from Melissa's cake truffles, a lot of pressure was on Carmen and her mini-muffin sized s'mores to deliver. They are packaged with a variety of milk chocolate, white chocolate, and caramel s'muffins and EVEN AT THE RETAIL LEVEL, THEY ARE SOLD REFRIGERATED. It's not a bad thing but I'd prefer you not go in with false pretenses. I dropped a little less than $30 for my dozen, my colleagues dropped roughly half of that for their six each, and the moment of reckoning had arrived.

     My roommate was very clear on the fact that he was not a "muffin guy", so the endgame of this trip for him didn't mean nearly as much as it did to me. My other colleague just likes good food which meant he was all in regardless. Thus, it was no surprise that he went first. After taking his first bite, there was some type of moan typically equated with the sounds of human reproduction and I knew it would be okay to give one of mine a shot. I bit into a white chocolate one and when asked which one I had, I tried to say "white chocolate" but it was surely muffled by the graham cracker base that partially fell out of my mouth since the euphoria I was in lightly numbed my jaw. I was able to snap out of it in time to see my reluctant roommate take a bite of his caramel one. His reaction was quite the whirlwind that began with a gravelly "Oooooohhhhhh!", that transitioned into his lightly skipping down the street, and closed with him walking back and shooting the Platine Bakery the meanest look I've ever seen a human being give a bakery that sold him a third-party confection that they enjoyed. In the exact same way that I hated Melissa, he now hated Carmen. Because love wasn't a strong enough emotion for what their respective confections did to us. We were hooked. Later that week, I gave two to another co-worker, and combined, we ran through sixteen s'muffins in less than a week. Embarrassingly, it was time to re-up.

     Dateline: Saturday of the same damn week. Ridiculous... The original stop on our s'muffin quest was a place on Redondo Beach near our hotel named Made By Meg, a small bistro run by chef/caterer-ess/overall bad ass, Meg Hall. When we overzealously tried on Monday, they were closed. But this wasn't Monday, and we needed our fix. When we initially walked into the bistro, I panicked because I pushed a door clearly labelled "Pull" and knew that this wasn't going to be a good first impression. I subsequently overreact, grab my s'muffins out of the cooler, and shoot Meg, who cordially greets us, arguably the most uncomfortable smile I can muster. She then rings me up for my s'muffins and asks if I'd like anything else and as I take a look at the menu, my work colleague who just got a new camera is snapping pictures like a maniac at anything that would be considered remotely interesting. In what was hands down, the sweetest way I've ever heard anyone paraphrase "What the hell are you doing?", Meg asks him if he's a blogger and once he explains the situation, she just lets him continue to do his thing. I finally decide on (what I believe was) the grilled flank steak with soy chile glaze & vanilla bean sweet potatoes. After a few minutes, I receive my dish to go and we head to the car to put up our newly acquired s'muffins and head to the beach. I sit down, take a bite of the meal, and give a second fork to my colleagues as I walk back inside to personally fawn over this woman's cooking. I typically don't care for sweet & salty/spicy combinations but I took a risk and came up aces with this one. The tenderness and juicy flavor of the grilled steak flowed seamlessly into the light sweetness of the sweet potato/vanilla bean which rolled into what was just the right amount of heat of what I think were scallions but I'm not certain. All of the flavor transitions had such a smooth fluidity and rolled back and forth into each other like the feeling one gets riding a swing. Instead of saying any of this to her directly, I believe I just said, "Wow!" which was followed by me muttering some other incoherent nonsense and her graciously accepting my praise and inviting me to come back for her Two For Tuesday promotion. Which I hope to do while still here.

     If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, these women must have carte blanche as it pertains to suitors. They have all found a way to not only create culinary masterpieces, but to find their own niche in a place where over saturation can make it easy to get lost in the shuffle. I'm grateful for the chance to try all of their artwork and hope for the chance to do so again. I wish them all continued success and if anyone reading this gets a chance to travel to Southern California, don't dare hesitate to try all three.