I spoke to my brother the other day about the battle of will I have waged with myself. He spoke of a friend who ran the same gauntlet some years back. According to said friend, after a few weeks of abstinence he reached “another level” where thoughts were clearer, ideas flowed and spirituality rained supreme. Fuck that noise. I can think of nothing clearly. All thoughts end in female orifi.

This past weekend was glorious sun-splashed hell on earth for yours truly. The streets were awash in mini sundresses and daisy dukes. My eyes drank it all in. I almost prayed for a monsoon. Along with the regular rigors of attempting celibacy, my female friends are truly taking the bull by the cock with their temptations. Let me regale you with an anecdote or two.

My comrades and I hit a pub to watch Game 7 of the playoffs between the Habs and Booins. We lost and sorrows were drowned in Jameson and Car Bombs. I am lucky enough to have a gaggle of beautiful, funny and, I assure you, purely platonic girlfriends. One of these friends, whom I will from now on refer to as The Swede, is a resident of Montréal’s West Island and so, occasionally, sleeps at my place when we go boozing downtown. After a Game 7 loss and significant sorrow drowning, I left somewhat early. The Swede slurs to me about how she will be sleeping in my bed, so I should be naked and waiting for her. These are the kinds of comments I have been receiving for the past few weeks, with sultry looks thrown in for good measure.

Upon touching my pillow I pass the shit out and wake the next morning with barely a memory of the night prior. Turning over, I’m shocked to find a girl in my bed, wearing one of my soccer jerseys and a thong. I am still a bit tipsy, and my memory of the night before takes a few seconds to register. I realize that this is The Swede and I did not put the nail in the coffin of this challenge. If I was a touch tipsy upon waking, The Swede was lambasted. She mumbles some things about god knows what as I try to rouse her to get dressed because I am already late for work (another of my platonic harem jacked my phone the night before, which doubles as my alarm). As we both changed, I turn around to notice The Swede is now fully topless with her back to me and pulling on a pair of skin tight jeans. I tell her to turn around. She does. What I witnessed that morning was a pair of breasts created by the brushstrokes of a filthy-minded God. I could not restrain myself from reaching out to her heaven-sent fun bags for a squeeze. Her sweater meat is etched in my mind and almost a week later, still keeps me up at night.

This Saturday was glorious. The sun shone, the breeze was warm and the legs were out. After brunch, six or seven of us went to kick it on the mountain. That six or seven turned into twentysex or seven by early evening. Among this throng were two particular beautiful babies I will henceforth refer to as The Blondshell and The Lugan. This mischievous pair has gone above and beyond the call to crack my resolve. The Blondshell, with her incessant straddling, rubbing her armfuls of cleavage in my face, and occasional earlobe sucking may take the cake. Although, the Lugan’s lascivious looks, crotch grabs and rock star appeal are nothing to balk at. The more wine we swilled, the more overt the tempting became. Another long story short: I ended up crashing at my buddy’s place hopping beds throughout the night with The Lugan and another PYT who shall remain nameless. I give you my word, no baby making fluids were exchanged, and I am sure they only allowed me into their beds to torture me.

While I am only a quarter of the way through, I am already learning some lessons about myself. I am not as sex crazed as I thought. Though I do want girls, badly. And I am not Josh Hartnett, I am not losing my shit, nor will I be making anyone come with a flower petal anytime soon. While the aforementioned images play on in my mind, they are but moon-cast shadows of the ever-looping reel of pornography that the inspiration for this whole thing has left me with.
~NM