F is for Friend and S is for Spit Roast

I stumbled on this reddit post the other day.  Check it out Here.

You done?

Ok.  What did that make you feel?  Did you feel disgust at the lack of assertiveness the author showed?  Did you feel the drift of laughter welling up from your bowels because two bros spit roasted a broad in a bedroom while the dude who was crushin on her gave himself the black lung on the porch?  Did you think she’s a regular ho bag?

Dudes talking about his feelings here?  Fuck yes I am.  Because that post reminded me of the gut wrenching  knot I felt way back when.

*Fade into 1997*  Ol’ Rojo just got done playing back to back shows.  The skateboard contest was a smashing success and the warehouse show in the neighboring county went smooth as well.  I got a ride back to my drummers house with a gal I was majorly keen on.  She was my good friend and I had designs to get up in those sugar walls.  We hung out at school, we tooled around together and this night I had enough adrenaline and booze to finally put the moves on her.  We get to drool buckets house and are sitting on the couch.  I pull her on top of me and go for the kiss.  She laughs at me and says “that was smooth.”   It goes no where.

More cats show up to party.  The booze flows.  The night blurs on.  Wandering into the front room I see her on the couch with an older dude.  He’s got his fist almost completely eaten by the underside of her knickers.   They’re going at it like two drunk teenagers because in fact, that’s what they are.  My stomach drops out my asshole and I slink into the backroom, our practice room, and sit against the wall.  I start drinking at her.  Drinking at the disappointment, the betrayal of my intentions.

She comes into the practice room later.  Straddles me as I’m sitting against the wall. Her panties are off and her pussy is wet.  I’m wasted.  She grabs my face with both her hands.  There are cats in the doorway peering in.  ‘Oh shit, scandal!’  Pulling my head up as my muscles are lax from the sauce, she speaks at my face. “Rojo! You have to stop.  We can’t do this anymore.”

She leaves the room.  I take a moment or thirty to gather my composure then pick myself up by my bootstraps and continue the night in proper lodee style.  I didn’t sleep alone that night, but that doesn’t matter.  In my mind, I could not explain nor understand why a gal I was so fucking nice to would not want to get with me and I felt empty.

Sound familiar?

You know, I feel for this cat.  I didn’t learn after that.  Later on, during my second year of college, the same gal came to visit me.  My girlfriend was a bangin art major.  I told the gal who came to visit me that I’d leave my art major tart to be with her.  She wasn’t down.  Later she came to watch my band play.  She left early to go fuck one of my roomates.

Cringe worthy, am I right?

That fellow on reddit and myself are not the only ones with stories like these, but who wants to admit this kind of thing?  It’s like getting slapped by a big dick called humility, and that’s a sure way to harsh your mellow.

Nietzsche wrote “…and when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.”  Yes, it’s a out of context but hear me out.  I’ve been dancing the 12 step recently and because I have been consumed by an abyss by drinking coupled with chronic depression in times past.  It’s a dark desperate place, and it’s easy to forget when the going gets good.  When the going gets dark, it’s also easy to deny past experience for the easy fix, and a fix is always around the corner.  You can even cop in the pen.  I go to those meetings so I can stare into the abyss, but with tools I’ve learned, I have guide rope attached to a carabiner, which hooks to an anchor.  That way I can see where I’ve been without falling into the oblivion.

We’re all on the edge of oblivion whether we know it or not.

Reading homeboys story on reddit was a grim reminder of the things I’ve seen, experienced, and things I’ve done. The guy in the post is not interested in red pills, but there are those out there that are.  Understatement, sure.  However, I’ve got compassion for that fellow because that sucks.  That’s about as far as it goes though.

Can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.  Something I know all too well.


5 thoughts on “F is for Friend and S is for Spit Roast

  1. Pingback: F is for Friend and S is for Spit Roast | Manosphere.com

    • Hey Oliver, welcome to the blog. Thanks for commenting. I look at that statement; helping someone, from the angle of trying to get an addict to stop using. Even if they get off their substance, they will still need a desire to quit or they will go back to their old ways.

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