There is nothing particularly remarkable about Jason Mytez on the outside. He manscapes from head to toe, religiously applies anti-aging creams, and hits the gym three times a week. Jason is a good man with two simple goals-love and money-and one challenging mission: to understand women.
Jason's road to finding Ms. Right has already been a little bumpy to say the least. Unfortunately for Jason, lately he always seems to attract three of the seven types of deadly women: promiscuous, crazy, and angelic. While trying to find the girl of his dreams, Jason finds himself in one twisted dating disaster after another. Beginning with an embarrassing first experience that unfortunately reveals a rather obvious allergy to Latex, Jason embarks on a unique dating journey with a variety of women that soon reveal their good girl traits, worldly experience, and wanton ways. After encounters with jealous ex-boyfriends and overly aggressive women, Jason is soon nursing a bruised body and ego, wondering why he keeps making the same mistakes over and over again.
Only time will tell if the seven types of deadly women will push Jason past his breaking point or help lead him to the two things he has always wanted more than anything-love and money.
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7 DEADLY WOMENA Good Man Trying to Find Love in the Painful World of Dating.
By Jamie I. Hall
iUniverse, Inc.Copyright © 2011 Jamie I. Hall
All right reserved.
Chapter OneVanessa's Breasts are Evil
THE FIRST GIRL I SLEPT WITH got a bit more than a cum shot but before I get to that story of blood and pain, I think it needs to be said that I was what some might call a late bloomer. Much to my dismay, in hindsight, while most boys my age were discovering the art of the hand job and feeling up girls I was entrenched in the amazing adventures of Peter Parker and his alter ego—Spiderman.
I remember the first night I popped the floodgates to a world of sexual discovery. I was in my parent's basement wearing superhero pajamas and I woke up sweating. No one had any kind of a talk with me—thanks dad—and when I went to wipe myself off, I remember being confused and thinking that I should wake my parents to take me to the hospital.
God Bless dad's stash of Playboy under the sink—redemption for the man who explained nothing to me; I saw Miss March and my Sergeant was standing at attention once again. I soon realized what was going on and how much I liked it. All of those books with naked people in different positions made sense now. Hell, even the ignorant shit that people wrote on bathroom stalls finally had meaning.
After that wondrous night of discovery, you would often see me on my bike after school, trying to beat my parent's arrival home. Once inside I'd b-line it for the basement and about two-minutes later I was letting out a victory roar. I couldn't get enough and I knew the next step was a girl.
Unfortunately, like all late bloomers, I had zero game and less guts. Martha Stewart had more testicular fortitude than this hombre. However, despite my lack of suave, about a year later I landed a kiss. It lasted for about forty-five minutes at a party in a friend's basement. Now that I look back, what the fuck are two people doing kissing for forty-five minutes? How was I even able to sustain excitement for that long?
It wasn't sweet and passionate or rough and exhilarating. It just was what it was, which I can say was very different from my previous experiences kissing Jenny Love posters and pillows. Neither of us seemed to be able to control our saliva, which made for a sloppy but nonetheless, satisfying experience. At one point, I was using my tongue to feel around inside of her mouth as if I was on an exploratory mission for NASA.
That girl—her name; Heather—was my first encounter with lucky number one—the slut. Now that I look back I have no idea how I could have been so clueless. I was walking through the hallways, head raised along with other body parts, thinking I was the man. Turns out I was at the tail end of a sexual pendulum. While I was kissing Heather, Matthew Gill was fucking her. I probably should have seen the signs. At one point Heather asked why I never played with her breasts or let her see my cock. Kids say the darndest things.
I remember the feeling of confusion when I found out that she was engaged in a game of sexual twister minus me—why had this happened? What did I do wrong? I was crushed and had become a walking, talking, kissing joke because of course as with everyone's first crush I mistook what I was feeling for love. Really, it was just out of control hormones raging for a fix.
If Internet porn had been around back then—as available as it is today—I probably wouldn't be so fucked up. There might not have even been a Heather experience. There's no emotional confusion or long-term effects from the world of squirting, fisting and MILFs besides carpal tunnel I'm sure. Long-live Internet porn!
Now, I'm going to fast-forward a bit, because we all know taking any relationship seriously before you turn eighteen is social retardation. I just wanted you to know where it all started. Unfortunately, I did go through my fair share of sluts—dating, not sex. I was scared as shit of the intercourse.
Each time I dated one of these little divas in training I was just as confused about the result of our "relationship". Anyone that tells you sluttiness in school age girls is something new is lying to you. That's right your mom and your grandma are probably liars. There are girls out there that turn thirteen and are looking for their first thirteen-inch cock—they've been around forever.
Possibly the hardest thing for anyone to accept is that the person they are with has a past. It could even include being that thirteen year old or just your run of the mill slutty club girl. Life would be fantastic if we could all get unicorn virgins and that be enough, but that's not the way things work. The guy or girl you're with right now has a past and it made them who they are today. So as hard as it is to accept that they were doing the pelvic Dougie with someone else at some point—get over it or you'll die alone.
Heather and the other brutal excuses for girls that I "dated" in high school—through sheer disgust—ended up leading me to Vanessa. I found her through a friend. I had told everyone I was looking for a nice girl who didn't have a history of cheating. She was a cute red head from a good family with good morals and just plain good. She was the good girl before I knew I was the guy that shouldn't touch her.
She sang and danced, worked at Dairy Queen and had breasts that would make any feminist beg for a lower cut shirt. In short—she was hot. All I wanted to do was quit the dry humping and part the pink sea however she was also a romantic so certain steps had to be taken. A couple of years had passed since my first experiences in dating and I was now over my fear of sex.
We weren't really a couple or dating. We just knew we were attracted to each other and that is enough when two people are carrying around extremely heavy v-cards.
The first two times we had sex we didn't really have sex. The pieces didn't fit together so to speak and despite rented hotel rooms, candlelight and presents—we were left unsatisfied. That all changed with a midnight swim, however.
"Do you think the water will make it easier?" She asked with a bit of a nervous grin.
"God I hope so," I replied. "I'm starting to think I couldn't sharpen a pencil in there."
"Really Jason?" She splashes water in my face. "I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be complimenting me or something to get me in the mood."
"Well it put a smile on your face. You love my unique sense of humor. Without a face like Mister Pitt, it's all I've got!"
Our eyes locked as we moved closer together, making little ripples in the water as we nonchalantly took off our bathing suits. The pool was in the backyard of her parent's place, guarded by tall pine trees. The moon was big, complimenting the romantic mood set by the pool lighting. She was still living with her parents during her quest to figure out if she wanted to be a doctor or a professional singer as it was rent free and gosh darn it, her parents believed she could make it in whatever she did. By the time we met, we were naked. I slammed her against the side of the pool, lifted up her legs, and worked hard. I was about to hit a home run when she realized what we were about to do.
"We need a condom."
"In the water? Will that actually work?" I was just stalling, hoping she wouldn't care and just let me keep going. I was centimeters from the Holiest of Holy lands.
We weren't sure about anything except the fact that we wanted to take a wild ride on the sexual side so at her behest we jumped out of the pool, I grabbed a condom and she laid on the chaise poolside.
I strapped on the awkwardly small piece of latex, pulled her body close to me as I got on my knees at the end of the chair and then her hands guided me right in. The added lubrication from the condom made the access much easier.
That first moment where you finally get in is like breaking into a house. You're not sure if anyone's around and you feel like you probably shouldn't be doing it but the rush is so intoxicating, that you must keep going.
She let out a little squeal with every thrust, which made me nervous. "Are you in pain?" I asked awkwardly while trying to catch my breath and, to be honest, trying to hold back the urge to cum immediately.
"Yeah, but keep going." She replied while wincing.
"Are you sure?"
"Seventeen had an article about this. It always hurts the first time." Banter during sex. How do you like them apples?
My mind was racing and my heart was beating fast. I didn't know what to do with my hands so I just grabbed at her perfect breasts like I was tuning an old school radio. My legs kept slipping on the wet surface so it was hard to really get in there. As awkward as it was I still enjoyed it and I really couldn't envision any circumstance in which a guy wouldn't like this whole sex thing.
About five minutes went by when it happened. The feeling of utter joy and manhood power turned red. I had heard girls did bleed a bit during their first time but there was just too much flowing down there for that piece of sexual trivia hidden deep in my mind to make sense.
"Are you on your period?" I asked awkwardly, hoping it was she, and not I.
"What? No. Why?"
I pointed out the obvious, which made her shriek. The sight of blood had her running for the washroom but there was no need. I realized quickly that the blood was coming from inside of the condom.
"The inside—are you sure?"
"Yep, pretty sure. We can keep going though right?" Fuck guys are dumb when hormones are involved. The look on her face was all the answer I needed. I finally had sex but there would be no victory roar tonight.
"What could cause you to bleed like that?"
I was as puzzled as my little deflowered belle, so I decided to take the condom off. I quickly realized my skin was coming with it. My penis was literally falling apart. Shocked, I took a couple of steps backward and tripped over the diving board straight into the pool.
When I got my head above water I saw the condom and a long layer of skin floating at the surface. There was also the faint color of red floating around me.
Vanessa stood there horrified. "Oh my God. I think I'm going to be sick." And so, she was ... on me. You'd think that being puked on would have grossed me out but my penis was falling apart and I was swimming in my own blood. Vomit just didn't seem that bad at the moment.
I leapt up, threw on my clothes, and exited her parent's home—destination—hospital. Vanessa had no interest in accompanying me.
My doctor was a tall man with a British accent who didn't seem to love his job all that much. He didn't crack a smile or laugh at my joking probes about whether any guys got chubbies while he examined them.
My tests came back about 4 hours after the very painful exam. "Well Mr. Mytez I have some good and some bad news."
"Lay it on me doc."
"Your symptoms are the result of an allergy to latex. That's the good news. It's nothing serious and within four, maybe six weeks you'll be all healed up. The bad news is you have an allergy to latex and given your proportions, finding condoms for any future poolside activities will be very difficult. Plus they're very expensive in comparison to regular latex types."
You have to understand. I was eighteen when I heard this news—late bloomer remember? My world was crushed into little tiny pieces. Just six hours earlier, I was on my way to a summer full of sex with a hot girl. Now there was this doctor who was telling me that just the act of trying to get laid would be difficult. Oh, and it didn't help that he couldn't contain his snicker. The man now seemed to really enjoy his job—asshole.
So, that's how my first time happened. Anyone that has a horror story about their first can forever rest easy because unless a dog bit off a guy's balls or a girl's vagina locked up, I have the worst first time story in history. It took me almost a month for my penis to heal. My ego—well that took a bit longer. A real man sulks.
Chapter Two3 Can Play at this Game
AFTER THE GREAT LATEX DISASTER, I didn't care to do very much and in fact, I was deeply depressed. It might be because I worked all of those years towards a goal—getting laid and being really good at it—then ... that. A psychologist might say that I'm not very good at dealing with negative issues while recommending some sort of breathing and visualization exercises, then, maybe some yoga.
I decided to take my own route to healing. Amongst other great decisions at the time, I didn't return any phone calls from my boss. That led to a notice in my email releasing me of my duties. That didn't matter much because I didn't really want to get out of bed.
The night it all happened, Vanessa had to call a friend over to help her clean out the pool before her parents got home. While cleaning she told that friend the entire story and even though I'm sure it was not her idea, said friend then went and posted the story on the net, complete with photos. After the news hit the Internet, I was looking for a gun. Good thing I had never thought to buy one previously. For the next two weeks after the incident, I was simply embarrassed.
Depression is no child's play. I kept my room dark, listened to the angriest of metal and in between checking how the healing was going—I pictured Vanessa being hit by a bus. The darkness was almost overwhelming at times. I didn't want to show my face in public but life must go on at some point when you are without weapons of suicidal intentions.
When I finally decided to roll out of bed I sent out some resumes. It took almost no time to find an assistant-management job at a new nightclub with two real slime balls named Carl and Sean. Previously, they were the first guys I worked for when I started working the clubs at the tender age of sixteen. Trust me when I say this—lying about your age is one of the least morally reprehensible and illegal things that is done in the name of the club business.
Almost three years later, I had made a name for myself and was on track to being the youngest guy to do pretty much everything. I was once again working with Carl and Sean, who added me to the team at Opium and my job was to immediately staff the club.
That's when I met the good girl that would truly define what a good girl is—Kim. She was interviewing to become a hostess, which works cover charge and coat check. She had next to no makeup on, her deep brown hair up in a ponytail and was as cute as a care bear—not your typical nightclub interview. In fact, I wasn't even going to hire her but another manager saw something in her. He said Kim was different from the other sexually charged hires, which I agreed with.
Kim "dated" one of Opium's bad boy bartenders whom one can only assume was just out for a piece of ass. That fell apart and became very messy. He was a mess because he didn't get anywhere close to reading Kim's vagina monologues—his ego was bruised—and she was down because she knew that, in the end, he was just trying to use her. This was Kim's first dose of harsh dating reality.
Since I was in a stage of mess myself I noticed how hurt Kim seemed, so one night at work I had her accompany me on a journey to the Dollar Store to buy some champagne glasses. I felt if we talked maybe, I could help her, and maybe she could help me. I was also rather intrigued by this girl who did not belong in the biz.
"Does everyone think I'm this good girl?" That's how she started the conversation in her car on the way to the store.
"Well yeah, and in comparison to every other girl in this industry, you are."
"I'm not as cute and innocent as everyone thinks." Her protest was weak at best because—yes—yes she was.
"Why is that a bad thing? Why is being the good girl, a bad girl to be? I personally find it somewhat refreshing. You're the one good girl in a sea of sluts and psychopaths."
I could see this little ditty of truth made her smile a bit. "I'd prefer to just have no reputation at all."
"Wouldn't we all. But, in this snowy little city of ours, gossip and reputations are as good as currency. There are so many people with no lives so they fill in the boring days with experiences that others have. Just the lack of makeup and the clothes that cover up any inch of sexuality are enough for the rumor mill to hate on you."
"I guess, but that doesn't mean I have to like it—not that I'll do anything about it."
Excerpted from 7 DEADLY WOMEN by Jamie I. Hall Copyright © 2011 by Jamie I. Hall. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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