Capetonification

Animal instinct.
We really do have it.
It's that thing that makes you do something based on a hunch that has no intelligible meaning or factual basis.
You just know.
It's like you're on autopilot, and your body is doing what it's DNA is programmed to do.
It's like you're moving crab-like through a packed party, people everywhere, crushing, pushing, bumping, grinding, dancing - almost impossible to distinguish unique contact, even when sober.
You're drunk out of your fucking mind, having consumed litres of beer that seems to flow as ceaselessly as the money you're paying for it.
A face brushes past your own.
You didn't even see the who it belonged to, but three things were immediately clear from that millisecond brush.

1) It's a girl
2) She's hot
3) She wants you

you feel your body hit the breaks, and it seamlessly steps into the groove of the song.
Up until this point you weren't even aware of the music.
You watch the scene unfold.
It like you're half asleep, the mist of alcohol clinging thick to your mind.
You see the body step in close to the girl.
She's young. In her early twenties. She pretty. She's got a great ass, because by this time, your hand has circumnavigated that shit.
It takes two more facial brushes, and then her tongue is down your throat.
Your body remembers to breathe and breaks the lip contact.
The music moves it along. You're no longer in control. The cock is the master right now.
It wants out.
And wants in.
You see yourself kiss her again.
Stop.
Dance, kiss.
Rinse, repeat.
You're watching a movie.
And you're the the guy that scores.
The level of detachment is remarkable.
It's freaky.
And the only satisfaction you have is that you know that the body is yours.
Then you're buddy calls you over. And that's your break to take back control.
And without a backward glance you're gone.

Back on the prowl.

Sarah was about to step up to place her order when the guy in the black corduroy jacket pushed in front of here. “Single Latte to go.” He told the guy at the counter.
She was shocked, and was never one to deal exceptionally well with confrontation. But she had had enough of this lousy town, and the shitty Capetonian attitudes. “Excuse me!” She hollered, her voice more shrill than she would have liked. “But actually I was next!”
He swiveled round to look down at her. It’s not like she was short. He was just taller. “Shit lady.” He said. “I’m late for a meeting. I’m rolling on a massive hangover and three hours sleep.” He tipped his head forward, his dark Aviators slipping down his nose. His brown eyes were bloodshot and she could smell the odor of alcohol on his breath. He cracked a crooked smile. “Look, let me make it up to you. Let me get you a coffee – my treat!”
Sarah glared at him.
“What’ll it be?” He prompted.
She was fuming. “It’s fine.” She told him. “I can get my own coffee.”
“Come on!” He begged. “It’s a win-win situation!
She sighed loudly. “Gelado. No cream. Foam.”
He cocked toward the guy at the counter. “You get that?”
He nodded and hollered the order to the guys at the back who prepared the stuff.
It was awkward while they waited. The guy in the corduroy jacket looked at the ceiling, and Sarah could sense he was struggling to just stand. Sarah’s anger began to subside. Ordinarily she would have just brushed it off, but there’s only so much you can take. It was Thursday and work this week had been hell. Her manager had been driving her like a demon to close a project off one week before the deadline. It meant no lunch, extra over-time and little else but work. All because that bitch wanted to look good for delivering early. As far as Sarah could see, it wasn’t Hayley that skipped the break times or put in the extra hours.
The order arrived and the guy in the jacket handed her Gelado over. Then he gave an elaborate bow, dipping his head low. “My deepest apologies my lady.” As he came up, he lost his balance and stumbled a step. “Whoa.” She heard him say.
Despite herself she smiled. He smiled back. “Listen,” he continued. “I can’t live with the idea that I will go down in your memory as the-rude-drunk-guy-who-bought-me-a-gelado. I’d like to make it up to you.”
Sarah shook her head. She knew his type. Young. Single. Flirtatious. Always looking for the next best thing.
“I don’t think so.” She told him.
“Don’t make me beg.” He pleaded.
“Then don’t.” She countered.
“You asked for it.” He suddenly dropped to his knees. “Lady, to make up for my serious lack of manners, and to show you that I am sincere in my apology, I would like to take you out to some sort of restaurant slash diner slash whatever and treat you to some sort of meal slash snack slash whatever.”
Everyone else in Vida was now watching the exchange, half-formed smiles on their faces. Sarah felt the blood flood her cheeks and she said through gritted teeth. “Enough, you freak! Let it go!”
“Please.” He chirped.
“No.” repeated Sarah.
Suddenly he let out a howl, as if his testicles were caught in a vice and he threw himself at her feet screaming: “Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaase.”
Sarah stormed out of Vida without another word.
She heard the sound of black-corduroy-guy’s footsteps as he jogged up behind her.
“Hey!” he called after her.
She spun round on him and he skidded to a halt, holding a sealed take-away in each hand.
“You prick!” She shouted. “Was that really necessary?”
He shrugged. “You tell me?”
Sarah swore and continued on her way up Kloof Street, heading to her car.
The guy caught up with her.
“Come on! I think we’re off to a great start!” he pointed out. “Here, you left your Gelado behind.”
“Shove it up your ass, creep!” She screamed at him.
He started laughing out loud.
Sarah froze, and turned back to him again, venom staining her features.
If looks could kill, corduroy-guy would have been deep-sixed then and there.
She snatched her Gelado from him and was off, sipping at the iced-drink.
“That’s better.” He continued. They passed the Lifestyle Centre. Sarah was aiming to pick up something from Woolworths for breakfast but her stalker had now deterred her. She reached her piece-of-shit Polo, hit the alarm and the car unlocked. Opening the driver side door, she tossed in her handbag, and squeezed herself in before slamming the door behind her. Corduroy-guy waited patiently at the window as she turned on the ignition and the car burbled into life.
She let out a massive sigh, her anger evaporating. She looked at him through the glass. He wasn’t bad-looking. And he was persistent. Like a puppy.
Or a serial killer, for that matter. She had a flash in her minds eye of the options: Either he’d piss against her couch, or slit her throat while she slept.
She shook her head, knowing it was a bad idea and that nothing good would come of it, but she rolled down the window anyway.
“F-TV in Buitengracht Street. You know it?” she asked abruptly.
“Sure.” He said, nodding slowly.
“Saturday night. 21:30.”
“Yes?” he enquired of her.
Sarah looked at him. He clicked. “OH! Right! Got it! Say no more!
He sipped his coffee – and spat it out. “Shit that’s hot!”
Sarah grinned at him. “Come sober.” She warned before popping it into first and sliding out of the parking bay.
He skipped back, his toes narrowly escaping the car’s right front wheel.
“See you there!” he shouted after her, his right hand extended in the timeless rocker’s ‘Hail Satan!’ gesture.

A lot of folk, and by folk, I mean man-folk, do not put a lot of emphasis on kissing.
All their attention is focused on tits & ass.
They go in for the game-ender, the pussy, and the art of the kiss is left to fizzle.
I can't blame them. Those two (three?) are a lot of fun.
And don't forget the pooper.
If you're that way inclined.

Call me old fashioned, but I think kissing is great.
In fact, you can get a lady dripping just by using your lips.
True story.

Now I've kissed a few women in my life.
And for the most part, they let me lead.
It took a while to get the technique down.
I'm sure i was like some over-eager puppy when I was at my pimpliest, but in time even plants can learn, and so did I.
Top rule, keep 'em moist. Your lips I mean.
Nobody likes to kiss the great wall of China.
So be generous on the chap stick.
Over the years I refined my technique.
I pulled back on the tongue, used the lips more. Added in a few soft nibbles, and in the end I was satisfied with the product.
And the evidence showed that the ladies agreed.

Or so I thought.
There has been a dispute.
Just the one mind you.
There's always gotta be the 'one'.

Said I needed to calm down.
Use my lips more.
Less tongue.
Said I was an OK kisser.
Said I was a typical guy and went for tits and ass too quickly.

That was like a kick in the nuts.
I thought I was past all that.
But I took the advice.
And now not a fucking day goes by without me thinking about her chastising words when I kiss.

Am I a better kisser for it?
I don't think so.

But if I was as shit as she said, I know how it felt.
I knew a girl.
A nice lady.
Great body.
Awesome to hang out with.
Then she kissed me.
And now I know how it is to be taken by man.
She literally rammed her questing tongue down my throat. It was like a scene from Aliens, and she was the face-hugger.
She also done this sucking thing and nearly tore the tongue out of my fucking head.
I gotta say though, despite the blood and torn tissue, I got a boner anyway.
It's a bit S&M but I think I could grow to like her rough technique.

So what's the general consensus?
What do you think about kissing?
Is it important, or is it just a precursor to better things?

Comment on this post with a 'YAY!' or a 'NAY!'
And if you got some story to share about it, drop that in too!

Dig this pic.
Old-school oral.

Do you know what the problem with humanity is?
...
...
...
The cock.
And I don't mean a rooster.
I mean the awesome, well-cut, lady-pleasing appendage I am attached to.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for the MAN in MANkind, and I'm no Oprah Winfrey fan.
I say this because of one simple reason
We actually try think with the thing.
It's caused the destruction of Troy, sent that hapless couple to meet an early badly synchronized suicide
Broken hearts.
Broken bones.
orphaned children.
Destroyed souls.
And do we learn? No way.
We bump our heads every-fucking-day.
Sometimes we forget about it, and blood returns to our brains, and we get back to those commitments, back to the job, back to the people you love.
But when that purple-faced phallus catches a sniff of pussy, it's all out of the window again.
Don't even get me started on booze-fueled Grunt Hunts.
That shit gets down right nasty, and it's a story for another day, but allow me to take it as an example. Wait.
Does everyone here know what a Grunt Hunt is?
No?
Ok.
Let me explain.
Basically it's a pact made by a small group of similar aged men on the pre-flight check on a night out on the town.
It is stated, and agreed by all, that someone needs to score a chick.
The only rule is this: She must be ugly.
Fucked-in-the-face-by-a-bulldozer ugly. And Fat. Fat scores more points. And pimply pushes it to almost perfect.
Score the beast, and your the man.
It's a true test of character, determination, guts, will against natural instinct to bag the pretty chick.
So now we have that out of the way, we can continue with the point I was trying to make.

It is only this: Ladies, stay away from us. And particularly me. We're broken retarded man children.

Get some old dude. Some sixty-year old guy who's cock's fallen of from lack off use.
That guy will love you for you. Not for your tits. Or ass, or how tight your vagina feels, the stand-up 69 you can perform flawlessly night after night after night.
And that's true love.

P.S. And if you need something to scratch that itch, check out:
http://www.passionfruit.co.za
They've got cocks that won't fuck you around.