The Power of the Pussy

Last night, Jake called to ask if I had a good connect for drugs. He told me his location and I gave him a name and number. Moments later, he called me back to let me know that the number was disconnected. I gave the number a try and sure enough, an automated voice told me that the subscriber was not in service. I called my connect’s apartment, but all I got was an ominous repeating beep. So I did what any person whose drug dealer’s gone m.i.a. would do: I called his mom.

Z and I go way back. We went to high school together, were both in the gifted and talented program, and by the luck of last names, were always seated next to each other. This was when I was going through the state of female development  that I like to call, “Discovering the Power of the Pussy.” It’s during this time, around age 12 or 13, that adolescent girls realize they wield an extraordinary power: they can control men and manipulate situations. They have control over all people with penises. They are the forbidden fruit, the lusty Lolitas, the budding and virginal youths whose lack of sexual acumen means that anyone’s shoddy sheet shaking will rock their world. So naturally, it’s around the beginning of high school that most girls exploit this newfound power. Z happened to be one of the many boys whose minds I enjoyed manipulating.

Manipulation takes many forms. By the time I was 14, I was flirting my way into clubs and bars, making men in their twenties buy me everything from make-up to jewelry (while simultaneously holding out as much as I liked), and generally getting a kick out of pushing the limits. Could I get a boy to get hard simply by talking to him? Could one look send another guy falling down the stairs? If I told a twenty-three year old man that I like him, would he dump his girlfriend? His fiance? And the best power trip of all: Could I make someone devoted to me?

Z was an example of the last. He, like so many other boys I knew in high school, was easy to figure out. Whereas older men generally wanted only sex, boys my age knew they were lucky to be close enough to smell my hair. They’re caught in a perpetual salty sea of desire, and want nothing more than to lap it all up. Plant in their minds that you’re the answer to all of their wishes – the understanding, nurturing, kind, caring, porn star, sex kitten – and wait. Every few years, they’ll get in contact with you and say they want to catch up. They’ll start dating and fucking other women and realize that no one lives up to the hype that surrounds you. You are now a concept, the highest standard for women. The untouchable, unknowable goddess of sexual desire.

And that’s exactly what happened with Z. When I met him, he was going through the pangs of adolescent awkwardness and all it took to make him an emotional slave was some kindness and attention. Some is the operative word. I was popular and cool in high school, a brain who dressed well and had all the boys after her. I sold doctor’s notes in the cafeteria so that people could cut class undetected. I smoked pot in the nearby park and only fucked men old enough to be in college or working. But I was still down-to-earth, accessible, just within reach. And Z – just like all the boys I strung along – knew they were in the presence of greatness. All it took was a few kind words of acknowledgment, and – fastforward 11 years – he still carries a torch for me.

So, yeah, I fucked him. Years after he started crushing on me. Four high schools (for me) later. One major career as a drug dealer (for him) later. He popped up in my life just as my relationship with someone else [who just happened to be a runner for prominent criminals] hit the skids. In my vulnerable state I wanted someone whose opinion of me I could control. I didn’t want to feel like the victim of a broken heart. So I met up with Z, fucked him, came, said thanks, then said that I was too emotional to keep on fucking. He proceeded to lavish me with attention in many forms. And while the Mistress Mom of yore would’ve used him till he was nothing more than a shell of his former, high-powered self, the present Mistress Mom is over it. So I stopped texting him, and I stopped calling him.

Z offered his heart and his SoHo apartment, but I refused; despite my overwhelming bills, I don’t need him taking care of me financially and I know that he doesn’t want Me; he wants the concept of me that I implanted in his mind more than a decade ago.

Z offered his friendship; but he’s a sorry and pathetic man-child who doesn’t have any goals or ambitions; I don’t want to be his caregiver and nurturer.

Z offered me money; for each person I referred to him, I’d get a finder’s fee and a cut of all subsequent sales; I initially agreed but then balked; I don’t want to get ensnared in drug dealing and money laundering.

Every now and then, I give his number to a friend who wants to cop some green or white. And I’m pretty sure, just as long as he never reads this blog, that I could always borrow money from him if ever that need arose. As far as I can tell, our relationship has dwindled to “MySpace acquaintances”, and that suits me fine.

But, oh, for the Power of the Pussy!

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