1620 word count as of 07/23/21

Aging players don't need an excuse for who they are, but when you get to those who have been acting out for years you sometimes find a mate that is tired of his past, and is looking for something more out of life. There's not many of them that will change, as habits do make the person. If you find yourself with a mate like this, it is imperative to pay attention to what drives the behavior in them, if you wish to keep them. As you're both more mature than the teen version, it's easier to walk away than let it potentially escalate.

I always came to this club. The clientele was never the same from night to night, so I always liked coming here for my latest conquest--really, it didn't take much, with the women that went here. I think the place has a reputation for males that can service them--never been asked to pay, never been paid, but sometimes I get the feeling that it's a job for the other men that come here--the men are regulars, but they're not quite patrons, as it's a chick bar. That and it was rare to find anyone below an 8 in here--aside from me.

There's other oddities, too.

Occasionally, you get this chick that puts the horniness of the other females to shame. When 1 of those walks in, all the guys swarm to her, instinctively. I stay to the back because I'm not here for competition--not really into the chase, especially, as I'm just an average man-whore.

Don't get me wrong, used to think I was the shit as a high school trust fund baby, but I'm looking at my 30s, and I don't have that look of youth to me anymore. Not much, the first signs of gray hairs, a faint wrinkle, pure exhaustion if I don't sleep some time during the day, and hangovers. Don't get me started on the work it takes to be hangover free.

I actually win that type more often than I expect to. I swear, they come in here half drunk, mutter "human" and practically carry me out before I even have time to protest about my lack of choice. I don't make it back here for weeks after one of them. First it's a haze of sex that lasts 4 days, knocks out half my condom supply, and leaves me with rug burns on my boy. Something about how these girls grip damn near takes the condom off you, and wears your skin down. It takes a week to recover.

That's another thing. I'm not going in with a penis injury. My buddy who introduced me to this place came in here with a bacterial infection caught off a girl he picked up elsewhere, and one of those guys that I swear are paid to be there bounced him out for having an STD. They wouldn't let him come back after he was clean, either.

After that, I quit going to other establishments--this was the safest sex in town. I've seen them do it tons of times. I don't know how they know, but I've come back clean after each test, and I can guarantee I've had close to 300 partners a year, for a decade from this place. Shit, I feel like Solomon.

I never come in looking for any flavor or style. Hell, I'd take a 5, but they never have 1.

...until tonight, that is. A 1 walked in. Well, more like hobbled. See, at 300 lbs, most women still have a vaguely discernable face under their fat. She had to be bigger because, like a Tardigrade, the swelling of her face hid all but the tip of her nose and her lips were swollen into an "oh" shape.

Honestly, she looked near death, and I had some pity for her, for that.

But the strange part was the males swarmed her, anxious and concerned, nothing like their normal lazy smirks at the women around here.

I don't get it. I kind of thought this place was a shallow hookup joint, but I've been getting hints for years that that wasn't all the story, and now here's a woman that can't walk across the room without assistance and the men are all over her--not in competition like they do for the extra-horny, but in genuine compassion, as if they loved her.

Who was she? Why was I moved at all? I mean, I'm an average man who has been lucky to outkick his coverage for years. I've been drawn to this place well beyond just the looks or the sex, but why in the world does it feel like I've been waiting for this ugly thing...and why does it hurt to think of her as ugly?

Alright, by that point, I was about to head out because I just wasn't feeling it, that night. But the crowd was coming my way--I assume to get to the tables just behind me. The thing...I mean the lady turned towards me...muttering what sounded like 8. She rated me an 8? I mean, she had 10s clinging to her right then, and she rated me fairly close to them. It was flattering.

"Leave me." Her voice was commanding, each of the males bowed and left her side. The steps she took towards me were achingly slow.

It was torture.

I couldn't carry her...and I wanted to. This poor soul exuded something that demanded aid, and I couldn't.

"I choose you."

I should be horrified. I was way out of my element, here. "I...I...take my partners home. Can you fit in a classic sports car?"

"No."

Why was I disappointed? I'm leaving after she drops me. I can't trust myself like this.

"I have a driver who can carry me over, follow you..."

"Alright." With that, I was up. I gave her my arm, for balance, and in spite of how difficult the walk was for her, her hold was mild. I expected half her weight on me.

I got her into her vehicle, gave her driver my address, and sat in my own, cursing myself out the whole way back to my Toluca Lake home--a corner lot, around 4, 5 million in value. 7 bedrooms, 8 baths, too much house for a single man who never parties at home.

When I was a teen, my mother remade the basement to be more like an apartment for me, so I could have my separate place to hang out. Little shit that I was, I used it to bring girls home, separated from my parent's censure.

Then she was mugged and refused to give up her wedding ring. He shot her over something he hocked for $100. A nearly million dollar ring, for less than a minimum wage worker's paycheck. He's roughly 10 years into his sentence.

A few years later, dad's liver gave out. Medical care increased, but nothing saved him--the transplant failed.

I quit bringing women to the basement, first because I damn well own the whole house, and second because it reminded me of my mom being alive--I couldn't bear it.

Even worse was the master--where the high end medical grade bed still sat, unused since dad's death. Everything was under dustcovers on the main and second floor but the kitchen and my fuckroom.

The first room off the entrance is often used as an office, and in my father's day, it was. When dad died, his lawyer told me in that very room how all my funds were tied up until I married, other than what it took to maintain the home and a monthly stipend for me to live on. Ha. Usually, that type of clause was used for women inheriting, historically, but my father knew me--I didn't want to make something of myself.

My life has no meaning, but there's nothing I really want to do, either.

I destroyed that room. Had to replace everything, and chose to make it the place that I would bring women to--they barely get into the house, and I fuck up my father's will's intent in the very room where I was denied my inheritance. Vengeful, petty thing that meant nothing not even 2 years into that measure.

Now it's just habit.

I waited on the poor woman, walking her in through the garage and into that room. I wasn't sure the bed could take that weight, or how she would handle how low the frame was. "I have a medical bed, just off the elevator. Would you rather try that instead of being in here?"

If anything, her poor tortured face wrinkled in disgust, "Yes, please!"

So I lead her upstairs and pulled the dustcover off the bed, then plugged it in...and started going through the motions I've done for a lifetime, trying to not overthink anything. She said nothing as I undressed her and made her comfortable, not even a change in her already labored breathing as I disrobed. Pure silence until I pulled out a condom.

"No," she rasped. " No condoms."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm dying, so no babies, and you already know no one is allowed to be contagious in that club."

That saddened me a little, and explained some of the guy's anxiousness." What are you dying from?"

"Renal failure, officially. My people would call it a failure to thrive."

"I thought that was an infant diagnosis." I gave a soft smile that didn't have anything to do with how I felt.

"I know." Was all she said, but she didn't explain further.