TWO (1/1)

25 CONTROVERSIAL QUOTES  FROM THE S TYLE EMPRESSOn her dating preferences:"A man who smells bad has no future in my book.Smelling good is an indicator that you’re in control of your life.If you cannot smell yourself and take care of your shit,don’t expect others to do so.”Sandara Park____________________________________________________  I WAS READY TO GIVE UP when he walked in like an answered prayer. Wow. I don’t believe in destiny but I’m a little bit convinced now. Just a little. How is it possible that he looks almost exactly as the one I’ve been envisioning for weeks now? He has all my physical specifications down to his sexy feet. Incredible coincidence. But he’s right there. In the flesh. Tall, above six feet so that my baby will be an improved version of his generation. I’m only five-foot-three. Check. The face that will give my little princess a shot at becoming a supermodel if she falls short in the IQ department— not that supermodels are intellectually challenged, mind you— but that’s unlikely to happen as mine is Mensa level. However, I don’t want to piss off someone up there so please God, make my little princess as healthy, beautiful and smart as one of her parents, at least. Jawline and cheekbones that make an artist want to pick up a brush and paint away like a master. That simpering bubblehead he’s currently flirting with at the bar is just about to condense on the floor like sludge. Check, check and check! Oh, that body! He has broad shoulders and strong-looking arms corded with hard, defined muscles. No, he’s not bulky like those gym rats lifting weights every day. He’s toned and lean and can definitely command a giant billboard in Times Square or a spread in GQ wearing my men’s underwear label. He could be an athlete, or maybe a construction worker around here. Whatever, that fine-looking form can sure make beautiful, healthy babies easy. My ovaries flutter in hyper excitement. I can hear ‘em yapping in frenzy, too. That’s your Bubba Dada come to life! Yup, we’re putting him in capital letters because he just became flesh and blood and no longer just a figment of your imagination. Bubba Dada is now a proper noun. Go get him NOW before that man-eater at the bar steals your supply of sperm for the whole week! I cringe at my shameful thoughts, but they’re the unvarnished truth. I came to this place to carry out an important decision in my life. I’ve thought of it for years but I’ve procrastinated for far too long until my clock started ticking ominously like a time bomb. Now, I’m on a countdown. I’m desperate to do the most I can, given the limited time left in my system. Pardon the analogy but this must be how people dying of terminal illnesses feel like. Time becomes their lifeline, the very foundation of their waning existence. Every second counts like the snapping of every single strand in the rope anchoring them to life. Every snap represents the things they’re losing as they get nearer to the last strand. The last number. This painful cliché is happening to me right now. My biological clock is ticking. And it’s an irreversible progression. The bomb was set off by my gynecologist last month during my quarterly medical check-up.  No, it’s nothing life-threatening like the Big C, but it’s somehow related to that, too. According to my good doctor, I must get pregnant NOW if I still want to have at least one child and also to reduce the risk of getting breast cancer.  To put it more bluntly, my eggs are shrinking every month and pretty soon, like SOON, my ovaries will just wilt away like plants during the worst drought and cease functioning altogether. If I do get pregnant, my lactation period will vastly improve blood circulation in my boobies, thereby greatly reducing the risk of developing cysts in any of the unused ducts in there. If I want to analyze that further, I’ll come to the conclusion that making babies is mandatory for women as it’s literally a cancer prevention measure, which will set off an endless argument by yours truly about gender equality which at this point, I’d be arguing with THE Creator, so let’s not even go there. Anyway, what my doc said was definitely the granddaddies of all wake-up calls that set me in an apocalyptic panic. For real. It was time to face the reality of it. I finally made up my mind. Like really, really, really made up my mind. I want a baby. So here I am now. I’m not picky. I don’t care who or what my Bubba Dada is as long as he’s clean and  smells like heaven and has a smile that makes my tummy flutter like a million butterfly  wings and has the body that will make me want to finally end my ten-year aversion to men and sex. Wow. Has it been that long? I normally don’t count the years but when situations put me in the math zone, even I recoil at the reality of those numbers. It scares me, truth be told, that I haven’t really felt the need to have sex with a man in so long, that I haven’t felt the need to be with a man, even just for companionship, for a decade! It emphasizes the fact that I’ve refused to see (yup, Denial Queen) — that maybe, maybe there’s something seriously wrong with me. There IS something SERIOUSLY wrong with you. What the hell are you doing on this island , trying to blend anonymously among the mélange of tourists of various nationalities, planning to hook up with some random stranger and steal his sperm? I inwardly cringe again. It’s not really stealing his sperm. I call it borrowing. What is one sperm anyway? Just one in gazillions he produces every day, and may I add, wastes every day. I just need one healthy tadpole to fertilize one of my eggs before they croak for good. Just one! It’s not stealing, okay? Come on! Sperm thief! I quit wrestling with my conscience. I don’t need my moral codes nagging me today if I have to make a move on that hunk of masculine glory over there. Okay, so what the hell are you still doing here boring the shit out of yourself cataloging your internal shit? Go on, prove how gungho you really are about this baby-making project. I’m a very confident woman in my turf, commanding the most good-looking men to move the way I want them to while wearing my label. Adonises are commonplace in my line of work and I deal with them almost on a weekly basis. Lots of them in various nationalities. But asking a very good-looking man to have sex with me right off the bat is something I’ve never done before. It’s uncharted territory for me and I’m basically almost clueless. I can just go for another guy, someone not so intimidating in the looks department. A regular-looking one. Plenty of them around here, too. Average height, balding, not-so-panty-creaming body. My ovaries protest violently. Don’t be a fucking loser! Aim big and high! We don’t want regular! We want extraordinary! If you’re going to get knocked up, do it by design! Choose the best man for the job! He’s gotta be the best of the best! You’re staring at him! I inhale deeply. My ovaries are right, of course. I take it back. I’m actually picky, that’s why I squandered a week looking for him. Now that I found him, I can’t let this chance pass. He doesn’t know me, I don’t know him, so no preconceived ideas about each other, ergo, no judgment. Just a one-week-stand if he’s amenable to it. He has to be. I’ve no other choices in sight. He’s leaving! Hurry! My ovaries are panicking. I need to be Machiavellian. Amazonian. Girl power. Yes, I want that man’s sperm and I’m gonna get it come hell or high water.    ————//————  What’s that? My built-in radar is picking up something in the air. It’s an invisible energy touching me. Surrounding me. Caressing me. The al fresco bar in this part of the strip is packed this afternoon and I can barely make out what everyone’s saying.  Of course it’s full of energy, but I know the difference between throwing around casual hook-up signals for anyone who’s interested and a well-directed one. This is a well-directed hitting. On me. And it’s the strongest of them all. Someone’s watching me intently. I do believe in that telepathic shit. I’m sort of metaphysical, if you want to go Zen. I’ve been around people of all walks of life a lot from my travels. I know it when I’m being singled out from the rest. It’s not coming from this chick at the bar giving me the look that promises a raunchy romp later, nor is it coming from the ladies at the table to my right who’ve all been flashing their tits and tats at me since this morning at the competition, and now they’re hell-bent on getting me to join them in a bender of booze and sex later. How times have changed. Men are no longer the dominant sexual predators. I shake my head a little. Wild rich girls. The entire island is full of them, tourists from around the world who come here to have an uninhibited, anonymous good time. One of the girls trying to get my attention acts on her need. She comes to the bar and literally slithers between me and whatshername, the one trying to chat me into her panties too, but failing miserably. I’m choosy these days. “Would you like to join our table?” Not very subtle, too, this babe. It’s like offering the goodies to a man point blank, minus the trimmings. Now, any man would immediately dive on the goodies as they’re fine-looking ones but I’m not most men. I like trimmings. I’ve tried a lot of things with these girls and frankly, it got old pretty fast. You can only do a woman in certain positions that are truly pleasurable, the rest are just for show. Now, I’m tired of showing off. I don’t need that validation anymore. I’ve done the United Nations, you know all races. My junior is now very secure in its abilities to make pussycats purr in extreme satisfaction at its own time and pace and is no longer trigger happy or suffering from attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder. I give her my Mr. Nice guy grin. “I’ll have to pass but can I buy you girls another round of drinks? Just order. All on me.” Her face turns a bit ugly in disappointment. “Are you sure?” She thrusts her ample chest towards me, barely covered by the twin scraps of her black bikini top. Not bad on a boring Monday afternoon.  I wait for my junior to give me the go signal. The fucker doesn’t even give the slightest twitch. I smile at her apologetically. “Yeah.” She gives me this I-cannot-believe-you’re-saying-no-to-THIS! look. Another overly confident spoiled brat denied a whim. She stomps away in a huff. “Maybe you have a small dick anyway,” I hear her say. I grin and take a swig from my can of Monster. Baby, you have no idea. They’re most probably first-timers on the island. My reputation hasn’t reached them yet. But then again, I’ve been deliberately ducking the island’s wild circuit the past months. These days, fucking strangers is as palatable as a drive-through grub. Fast, easy and forgettable. I want to dine in. I want to remember. I want a woman I can savor like a great meal prepared lovingly. Something I’d take time consuming. Something I’d enjoy till the last bite. Something I’d like to eat again….and again. For a change. Tonight, I want to just chill by myself. My team won the semis yesterday and we are off to the championship race next weekend. I want that trophy. The team wants it. We want to be champions, first and foremost. Banging trust fund girls looking for some island adventure is an unnecessary distraction. I need to conserve all my energy for that race on Sunday. I finish my drink and prepare to leave. Whatever that energy I’m detecting somewhere in the bar, I’ll pass up on tonight. Maybe after the race, if I feel it again, I’ll make an effort to look for its source. For now, I’ll let this one go. I slide from the bar stool and collide into something.  ————//————   Boy oh Boy, I have seen dozens of the most hot-looking men of all races the past week and quite frankly, nothing has set my eggs a-fluttering and singing “fertilize me now!” in unison like a Wagner orchestra. Our eyes lock. Or I don’t know. He’s wearing shades, I’m wearing one, too, but I just know our eyes are onto each other like we’re the only people in this crowded bar. Holy hell, Batman, I can really feel the current passing between us. Megawatt level! I shiver, not from the cold rapidly spreading down my front. “I’m so sorry, miss. Are you alright?” he says with real concern, his hands hovering on me as if he wants to touch me but doesn’t want to cross the line. Muttering a curse to himself, he turns around to grab some paper napkins from the bar counter and begins dabbing on my face and neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you and…”his voice trails off and he winces, embarrassed. I fight a giggle. I have to admit my limitations. I’m very rusty in the flirting department so I had to use that classic move I’ve read about so many times. Of course, I deliberately bumped into him. I purposefully drenched myself with the melon shake and now my caftan-covered chest is dripping with it. Lamest trick in the book to get a man’s attention but it’s very effective. I can’t see his eyes but the dude looks so guilty he’d probably donate a load of his sperm if I asked him to right now. He moves to wipe my wet chest but stops short. Boy, am I so glad I have extra pounds to give my double Ds an extra lift (lets all imagine D have it that way