Ike's Bike

ike lives

To be fair, this whole start new job-quit new job-freak out-start new new job business happened in only four or five weeks.So while it was wretched and horrible it was mercifully brief.

I'm in a colorful mid-sized NY town covering adult events in the big city. Criminals here are plentiful and eccentric. This is town of 60,000 is not home to a Target, but does boast its own red-light district and crack row. On the way home, I passed what appeared to be a woman and her daughter folding about a million T-shirts that blanketed their lawn in a well-fashioned grid. The same day, an abandoned RV caught fire (in these parts, we chalk it up to an exploding meth lab). Then there was the crack dealer roundup that afternoon. And that was day one on the job, children. Beats toiling in that sterile cube in the suburbs.

But deep down inside me is a suburban kid who grew up too close to the ghetto. My old hood wasn't bad, but that town, like this one, could go from Pleasantville to McShittsburg in about 30 feet. I grew up with the irrational but nonetheless paralyzing fear that fuckers would one day creep into my bedroom window and toast me on a spit or snap picks of my cameltoe. There was a chimo living around the block but, truth be told, most of the gang members the neighborhood Brownie leaders feared were kids I went to school with anyway.

It was a little dicey, though, and shortly after we moved a neighborhood bar was shot up (seven injured, two killed) by a dude who lived about two blocks from my old pad. He had an unusual last name shared by a girl I sometimes palled around with in seventh grade who lived on the street in question. By "palled around with" I mean she was in my social studies and would regularly drop by unannounced when her parents started throwing the family cat and other projectiles at her.
So I'm apartment hunting in a nearby town of 4,000. I know its stupid, but being a crime reporter does not put you on any criminal's good side. It's a cute place anyway, and college gave me a taste for small-town living. I just hope I don't get a reputation. ;) I wonder how long it would take to fuck everyone in my age bracket?

I once again thank you for your patience during the renovations of the Ike's life

wheres waldo

So ever since my recent failed attempt at monogamy -- not that I'm even remotely considering that the failure was my fault, the fault of my sluttiness, or even due to anything other than the fact that he was boring and a music snob -- I have been the girl upstairs asleep while everyone in her house is getting their swerve on. I'd love to resolve to end this today, but in my failure to take my birth control regularly I've wound up on my period for the last two weeks and still have a week to go before it's likely to stop. For normal people this isn't always a hindrance, but to a big slut who doesn't know where her sex is coming from, taking home a dude while on the rag is a gamble.
Instead, I promise you, me and the universe that today I am getting back on the make out train. And with that, it's time for a little discussion of The Eye.

The Eye is a technique I, and I imagine, others, employ to illustrate my interest in making out with a particular bar patron. It's most effective while you're dancing, as opposed to when you're buying a drink, etc. Shake it in a suggestive way and focus one eye more heavily than the other on your victim. If your eyes meet, hold the stare. Do things with your mouth, nothing to over the top, just enough to remind your prey that you have one and you're good with it. Bite your lower lip, breathe heavily or press your lips together like your blotting lipstick. If it's in the cards for you two tonight, he should make his way toward your sexy arse. If not, move along, move along. And dont worry that he may not want you as his hot wife. Theres lots more to pick from!

To prepare yourself to give The Eye, you should Prowl. To initiate Prowling, I make a claw slicing motion to my partner in crime and we circle the bar. Lock eyes briefly with those you find enticing. This will lay the little groundwork necessary for a steamy make-out session in your favorite bathroom, kitchen or right there on the dance floor.

I've been developing a theory that I land a disproportionate amount of poorly hung men. At one point last semester when a gal pal and I both shacked with the same guy, I guessed that he was seven inches while she insisted he didn't top five and a half.

I'm tempted to believe that she was the correct one and I'm just used to a smaller brand of tool, therefore making the large of the small seem above average. Add to that that most of the more well-equipped individuals I've wrapped my talents around have been a) assholes and b) definite one-night stands as opposed to regular booty banks.

Probably the largest was a Minnesota native I 69ed in a hotel stairwell in St. Louis. He was probably close to 8 inches, but also had really droopy balls. I technically didn't have sex with him because we had no condoms (although he repeatedly offered to ask the front desk for some), but spent a good half hour sucking him off in the ladies room after abandoning the rather nasty stairwell. He was a big-time dirty talker who kept calling me "porn star." I'm guessing that's because of my secret blowjob weapon: the patented Porn Star Smile. She (or he) who gives head merely locks eyes with the recipient and smiles while continuing to lick, suck, and take the facials etc. God knows guys are constantly staring at you while you're doing your thing, so don't let those eyballs bore into the top of your head, just flash them pearly whites. Julie Meadows and Taylor Rain are truly the masters of this.

Another fling who packed a big sausage was a young man I mounted on the side lawn of a friend's party. I found out later that 1) he was a virgin and 2) the condom broke, so I felt kinda bad. But now he has a good story to tell his buddies at school. :)