Welcome to another sensual installment from the TWID series:
Tasteless Erotic Tales
Feelings collect into an ever expanding and proverbial balloon, and then either overflow from the mouth or burst through the bladder. We try to let out some air once in a while, but eventually our netted debt vastly overwhelms our contribution of momentary surpluses.
Erotically speaking, the hormonal levels of Mitch Buffert were simmering to a boil. In just two weeks, the Summer of 2012 would become the Fall of 2012 according to the Gregorian calendar.
Mitch Buffert had yet to “taste the fruits of Summer.”
And he was about to disperse some feelings. Or at least succumb to his hormones bubbling-over.
On the prowl as always. A frat boy that graduated from school but not the culture.
Mitch continued to work with what rarely worked before, wearing his sunglasses at night. Luring women with impostor cologne, and armed with a slew of movie lines. Things he tweaked in college. Stuff he imported from other chapters when on road trips. Odds and ends that shaped his nighttime persona. All amounting to a usually unsuccessful pretense that somehow seemed foolproof after years of delusion.
Instead of confronting his shortcomings rationally, Mitch did what most deeply insecure men do, and shifted the responsibility for these shortcomings away from himself.
It’s not entirely his fault (as Mitch himself could tell you). He had parents that were really nice to him. They told him that many things “weren’t his problem.” And if “people didn’t like it,” it was “their problem.”
Mitch believed he was awesome when he was mediocre. He believed that other people were possibly psychotic when they couldn’t connect the dots in his scattered reasoning. Mitch pumped himself up filler and artificial self-esteem all Summer, and instead of being self-aware, he further supplemented with synthetic self-love over true loathing and assessed everything to be symptomatic of a “Cold Streak.”
Which prompted the search for a “Slump Breaker.”
Oh Mitch.
There’s a demarcation in intoxication level that women need to be wary of. If they cross that boundary, then they need to be worried about Mitch Buffert. Like a Rottweiler smelling a pork chop from two rooms away, Mitch Buffert can sense when a woman is about to compromise her principles.
Mitch goes to singles bars on days that end in -y-, and sometimes fires a gay club in there just to try a different angle. He’s a coyote that considers himself to be a wolf.
With a voice like Tim Kurkijian, Buffert enters every battle on an incline. He’s not exactly handsome, but he’s not homely either. He smells like he “tries a little too hard.” And it’s this 2/3 Senate majority of superficial attributes that makes ‘sealing the deal’ so tough for him. Given everything he’s stacked against himself, he stays unrealistically positive, and always gets back on the horse that left him three pick-up lines ago.
This is where the phrase “getting lucky” comes from. Because for a woman to make the mistake of one-night cohabitation with Mitch Buffert, a bunch of fucking stars gotta align.
And on the 19th of September - just two days before Autumn - fate took a celestial turn.
Deciding to shave his head and keep his facial hair, he approached McFadden’s looking like a 24 year old Jay Glazer. Mitch was determined to be successful tonight at any cost. He had set his sights as broad as possible. He was going American Pie 1, and he wasn’t going to end up a Summer virgin.
Poor Jenny. Compounding her problems was going to be inevitable.
Bad Summer culminating in a bad breakup. She was going to the bar for a much-needed girls night out. Thinking things couldn’t get more futile, she didn’t see the point in taking inventory of her alcohol consumption. She also had horrible friends.
Three shots, three shooters, and three “Margs” later, she was on the brink of losing her Caesar salad and dignity.
Mitch Buffert was in the market for some dignity.
When you combine alcohol, libido, and a pungent cologne that makes nares wrinkle, anything can happen on any given night. This given night was a Wednesday. He found Jenny before she could come back to sobriety, and before she could conscientiously say no to the Buffert buffet.
9 Months later, Jenny still finds herself burying her head in her hands on occasion. To this day wishing Mitt Romney was never elected President.
