Rule Number Three

I swear, they're all whores. And the only ones a man can truly trust is the whore who freely admits what she is. She asks for X amount of dollars for X amount of time doing X amount of sexual activities, and then she leaves. God bless her, I say!

My girlfriend in college had been just the same. She knew that my work in the lab was my passion, and that I felt I was onto something which could benefit both of us. But she nagged me about spending too much time there, using guilt as a bludgeon to win her contrived competition. Oh, but what about her passions? She was a cheerleader and business major. Her business was finding the guy who would give her the life she thought she deserved --- not by worthwhile endeavor, but because of her mere existence. She was beautiful, and what else did she need besides that?

I refused to be drawn into that fucked up game of "If you really love me you would..."

My answer to that is, "Kiss my ass, bitch!" and that's pretty much what I told her. So she found some other schmo who caved in and gave her every part of himself, and now she's unhappy with that, calling him a wuss and a limp dick. Fucking spiritual vampires is what they are.

I had another buddy who was a recreation freak, and who parlayed it into big bucks by becoming one of the top guys on the AVP circuit. He met his ex-wife at a volleyball tournament in Manhattan Beach, where he and his partner won the biggest event of the year. Rochelle knew he was a tour player.

She knew he had product endorsements which required him to travel when not going to tournaments to make promotional appearances. She loved the fancy townhouse in South Beach and the nice home out in California. But she never let up on him to spend more time with her. Would she travel with him on any of his gigs... No sir! She had her own shit to do, like meeting with her girlfriends five days a week for shopping sprees where she bought stuff not just for her home, but for those other bitches as well. Using guess who's money?

She finally divorced him, sued for alimony, and then took half of everything on top of that. It left him crushed. He's dropped down to the bottom half of the top 16 players, losing his former partner and most of his endorsements. Fucking cunt. She won't come to Miami any more because every time I see her I flip her off and tell her what I think of her. Now all my buddies do the same thing. She wants to see someone broken and humiliated? How does it feel to have the tables turned on you, you fucking parasite?

Women find that one really special thing that a man is good at. His passion. His reason for existence. And then they put themselves in direct competition with it, chipping away --- using guilt as their main (and usually only) weapon. If they succeed, the man ends up a broken shell of what he once was, having lost his passion for existence, and in the process realizing how it happened and at who's hands. And then these crones point their wizened fingers at men and blame us for mentally and physically abusing them!

Sister, just be glad we're in America. Most other countries you act like that and you'd find yourself out on your ass with nothing but the clothes on your back. Good fucking riddance, bitch! You want to compete with something? Try this: See if you can find a way back into my heart after you've ripped it apart and used it to wipe your fat ass. See if you still have your appeal when your tits are sagging, your ass is spreading, and the backs of your legs have cottage cheese hanging off them. Now compete with that hot young chickie over there with the killer body, the super vitality and the sex drive that only wants to have fun and to scratch that delicious itch without putting up hoops for me to jump through and meeting goddamn criteria.

So what if she's twenty years younger than me? She digs the attention of an older guy; she likes that I spoil her without giving up my own life, and if I'm stupid enough to think that she's there for the long haul, I deserve the way she'll clean me out. Because like I said, they're all whores. The young spankers are just more open and honest about it. They don't have as much to lose. They've got their youthful looks and hard bodies to trade with. It's when women start aging that they have to really use their wiles against men. And believe me brother, they are a lot more corrupt than you could ever imagine.

Give me those vital, hard-bodied girls and you can have ALL the women. You can have their sophistication. You can have their intellect and wit and charm. You can have their business acumen and style. I don't need any of it. 'Cause I got me a young hottie for feminine companionship, and my tribe of men friends for all that other shit.

And my male buddies will never play head games or make me compete for their friendship. They'll back me up no matter what I've done. They'll attack a problem with logic and reason and humor rather than wringing their hands and crying, 'Oh, poor me!" And they'll never use guilt as a device to modify my behavior.

And I'll tell you one last thing on this subject. When a girl starts playing that bullshit like Chloe was starting to pull, you can have her, too, because she's already ruined herself in my mind. You can have her, her precious cherry, and her little dog, too. This little bitch would make a train wreck of my life in nothing flat, changing me from a twenty-five year old millionaire with ideas and aspirations to a broken heap of rubble, with her as the wrecking ball. Too bad she's so fucking hot, but that's just another part of the misery she'd cause.

I made up my mind as I checked myself in the bathroom mirror before leaving that I was done with her. I thought about that funny email going around on the internet, the one with the gorgeous babe's picture and the caption underneath that reads, "No matter how hot she is, somewhere some guy is sick of her shit!" Aint it the truth. I was just lucky enough to find out before either of the two Rules came into effect against me. Hell yes, I'm living right and my personal power is protecting me!

It was around 9PM that evening when I found out the real truth about my "personal power". It had come not from myself, but from my best friend John, and his use of cameras throughout the bungalow. He'd had a brainstorm idea after seeing how much money the papparazzi had made selling crappy photos of Brad and Angelina coming out of this very same bungalow not two months earlier. As my true-blue friend, he had stayed up all night watching me and Chloe get closer and closer to the finale, knowing I was one doomed motherfucker once I ruined his expensive sheets. He had warned me not to go through with it, especially after telling Chloe that "dirty fucking lie", to use his words. He was so disgusted with me for making up that fable of Rule Number Three that he decided to intervene in any way and as many times necessary to keep me from driving a stake through my own heart.

I ask you, is that a friend, or what? He hired an off duty cop to hang out all night, waiting with cell phone in hand for Johnny's cue to knock on the bungalow's door just as Chloe's cherry was about to pop. He told me later that if I was going to ruin my life it wasn't going to be in his hotel when he had anything to say about it.

After I left, he went personally to visit Chloe to tell her that she had to be clear of the suite by noon. He took back her cell phone, chained up the scooter she had used the day before, and turned off the wireless router for the internet connection. He explained about the camera and how he had watched us all night long, causing her to blush her deepest shade of crimson yet. Then he told her that I was like a brother to him, and that he owed me his life, which I guess was kind of true, since I pulled two guys off him who were beating the shit out of him with pool cues back in our college days.

John told her that there are really only two rules between men and women, the one about girls always ending up hating the guy they give their maidenhood to, and the two- time rule that everyone always forgets. He apologized for my making up the lie of Rule Number Three. There is no such thing as true love, he cautioned her, no matter what you read or see in the movies. True love died out in 1948 he said, when the GI Bill was introduced and American society began it's long downward spiral as the commoner began to believe that he was as good as the elite.

He told her he had spoken to the police about her father's sexual deviance, and had followed it up by sending a couple of his persuaders to convince the widower that his daughter was off-limits, no matter how hot she was. If he wanted to take a run at one of her girlfriends, well that was a different matter. John gave her a business card and told her to call him any time she felt threatened or just needed a friend to talk to, but to never try to contact me. She was too dangerous to a guy like me, he warned her, and she knew exactly what he meant. He called a cab for her, giving the driver the address of her father's condo.

Two weeks later I saw the two of them riding in his Mercedes. She was leaning close to him and he was laughing at something she had just said. He had told me they were dating, but that she had followed the wisdom of Rule Number One before they started, giving her cherry to some cute tourist guy on vacation. She wasn't even sure of his name.

Of course, my buddy had already forgotten Rule Number Two, the two-time rule. The pussy was that good. I'm sure it was. I almost lost a fortune to it. Now he and I were even, and I wasn't bitter in the least. But I had to tell him two things when he came down from Snapper Heaven. One was that he was forgetting Rule Number Two --- that she was slowly setting her hooks in her prize, and the other was that I had figured out that there really is a Rule Number Three

No, it wasn't about True Love. Gack, that's a fucking dirty lie for sure. No, the Rule Number Three I had finally come up with is this:

"They're all whores."