By The Dude
There comes a time in most modern dude's lives when you pull the lever and everything comes up "all dudes." The Dude had once such encounter, which, in the dude's humble opinion, is something all you hopeless smack dicks can learn a thing or two from. Let the dude set the scene.
Here The Dude was, minding his own drink, at a bar he found himself in, in a small midsized-Midwestern town (The Dude can never reveal his true identity otherwise broads would just throw themselves at him and he would not get the genuine Dude experience – sort of like a restaurant critic maintaining his confidentiality...you want the real food not the stuff they give you for free). It was also the rare occasion that The Dude was sporting a sport jacket.
At this point, it's probably prudent to establish that The Dude is not a metrosexual by any stretch and if you ask the modern dude, a metrosexual is merely one step in or out of the closet, depending on how you look at it.
Now, mind you, the dude keeps in good shape because the dude has to maintain "booty readiness" at all times. In fact, running the "Office of Homeland Booty" is no small task. It requires staying in the best athletic shape possible without looking like a pussy, but enough about my problems. After all, that is a lesson for another day.
The Dude was looking pretty sharp in his herringbone jacket and khakis. In actuality The Dude was in town to re-unite with some old drinking buddies at an alumni function – and we'll just leave it at that. So turns out The Dude, not being attached to any one gal, was alone for the weekend in said midwestern town to hang out at the bar of which The Dude recalls quite a carnal past. Here things turned for the better.
It so turns out it was a minor league hockey night in said Midwestern town and the place was filled with many quasi-talented but athletic looking hockey players out to score for the night. Even though it is a truism for dudes, the less competition the better. The dude is a pro, not minor league when it comes to booty, and he can hold his own. All the dude had to do was stay put.
No sooner than The Dude took another belt of Jack with a Coke chaser, there was a slender, smiling brunette at his side angling him up. She seemed smitten to some degree. The Dude just smiled at her slightly. Then slammed his shot glass down for another belt. The girl said, "So, you play hockey? How'd you do tonight?"
This is like hitting the jackpot. I laughed, telling her I was just coming down for a drink in my old stomping grounds. A couple of her close friends hung back a bit, engaged in some broad conversation. Now mind you, this was a very attractive broad on the same level of The Dude – young, dumb and full of, er, fun.
At this point, the Dude was not honing in on a score for the evening. Because to do so is the work of an amateur: you never try to score, because trying implies that you could fail. If you never try, you never fail. Don't try to score. Let the scoring happen. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it wasn't because you failed. It just didn't happen. It's all about having the right attitude and mindset. Ultimately, it is about being a Dude.
Well, The Dude and this chick were now engaged in a meaningful pleasant conversation. We talked about how she grew up in this simple life hick town, somewhere, nearby – probably on a farm or some shit like that. Meanwhile, The Dude was heading back the next day as he only had a guest alumni room in the university dorm for the weekend. She, of all things, was moving, too. In the coming weeks she was to go live with her fiancée in Virginia. We then continued talking (definition: something a women's mouth does prior to going down on you).
As the evening approached last call, her friends said they were getting ready to leave. This was where the "the patience of the dude" was going to hit payday or simply never happen. There is no failure with the dude – only women who don't know what they could have had. This was an enlightened one. "I think I will stay awhile, I live pretty close," she said smiling. She knew what she was doing.
Later that evening, The Dude, ever the gentleman, offered her a ride home. She was game for continuing our conversation, which now gravitated toward her mixed feelings about moving to Virginia. No sooner than that she was in The Dude's guest room, and she lit some candles she found on a shelf.
At this point, I will spare you all the sexual positions we tried that evening. I will say she did some things in the sack that might have garnered a gold medal on the pummel horse in the Olympics. I would not have been half surprised if PETA showed up at the door and said it was illegal to do that to a beaver.
I hope I don't have to explain to you that you just witnessed a score.
The moral of the story: If you don't try to score, you can never fail at scoring. Be like the dude and simply let the butt slappin' happen! |
THE DUDE (last call for booty)
