This may not surprise some of you, but I’ve taken public speaking classes. Those that know me personally know that I’ve written several specifically targeted speeches and am quite an effective front man. I deliver the goods. I’ve perfected my charisma rather like someone would sharpen a pencil. It is a fine point, perfect on the outset.

So for those that know me only as an acquaintance, I come off as affable, pleasant, outgoing. My public image masks what you, my readers, see - that other side which is introverted, sharp and as pleasant as a the aforementioned pencil being shoved into an open wound. Such as it is with people - no one really totally knows what goes on when the world melts away in the dark.

Still that charisma does help me. I am afforded much more than I would get were I to be cantankerous and I have learned to recognize those rewards for swallowing down a little unnecessary courtesy.

The speech classes have made me deadly when it comes to manipulating my audience. N can attest to that. I never drag her into something kicking and screaming. I never push her into a situation she is set against. I simply ask her to do it, but my request is laced with everything that makes her heart pound faster. I won’t lie and say that everything was for her own good - I am a sadist, and more often than not, her will was set against something of which she should, rightfully, hold fear.

You could say that I am a salesman - a peddler of ideas or products, but that doesn’t encompass everything. I am the engineer, the marketing manager, the CEO of my product…which is, ultimately, me. Will you buy this idea I have? Will you yield in deference - acknowledge that, in this, my company, my argument, is stronger than your own?

The best words I have to offer are generally one on one. I enjoy face to face meetings, shaking the hand of the other person, looking them in the eye. My size is an advantage - expect one time on a Navy ship when I knocked myself out hitting a bulk head - and I use it, just like I would, say, use a smile, or a lingering touch on the hand.

There is nothing that says every handshake is the start of business, but even seduction has a formality in my world. I like old gestures, kissing the hand - or rather, blowing air lightly over the back of the hand, and things such as having my hand hover just above her lower back when we walk. All of this is noted on some level in the mind - especially when it is new, or unfamiliar, but enjoyed, even secretly by the object of my….sales pitch.

The best moments, the most intense moments, are those mini-speeches I give when I’ve got her pinned against the wall, my thigh sliding against the juncture of her legs. My hands are almost certainly in her hair, keeping her head tilted, my lips close to the shell of her ear, kissing that delicate artery that pulses, throbs rapidly under the fall of humid breath. Those words, passionate in nature, extricated from my gut, said in a near growl are the most effective.

I am rarely turned down. Only once in fact, and she…still manages to surprise me.

I love my words. I love language and try my best to perfect my ability to entice, seduce, enthrall. The words are just the beginning, passion and intent are what guide them - when combined with touch…. deadly.

—- —- —- —- —-

Now I’ve been accused of being cold, jaded. Quite recently in fact by a handful of people - friends are great, aren’t they? Still, I’ve got a few links at the bottom that entice me to ’see’ that picture they draw.

I’m after wordsmiths - list any you have…

My daily reads are already provided, perhaps I’ll find some to add to the list.

Saturday mornings, after my jog I often will call someone to join me for breakfast. It is a pattern I have and routine can be comforting for even my chaotic mind. Anne had already called and told me she was in the mood for Waffle House. I am fairly certain they are everywhere in the US, but for those outside of the US, it simply amounts to greasy food, toothless waitresses and uncomfortable seating.

Still, there is something about the food that keeps you wanting to eat it. Perhaps it is the pure grease content manipulating the brain. I don’t often go, but she was craving and I can find something to eat anywhere. It was crowded - a Saturday morning standard.

I found a booth, ordered coffee and waited for Anne to grace me with her presence. The waitress I had was either new or nervous because she kept glancing at my coffee cup every time I would take a drink. I get stared at enough because of my height and, N says, because of the color of my eyes so I found it mildly irritating, but my coffee cup was always full and when Anne arrived a few moments later, I had already gone through three.

She commented on my clothing (oxford and slacks) and I told her I was going to the office after breakfast. Anne was in some peach colored girly dress that showed off her shoulders. (I love shoulders.)

We sat, ordered, and waited for the food to arrive. I listened to the men behind Anne order and was irritated. ‘4 eggs, no yolks on three of them. Cut the fat off of the bacon before you cook it and bring me just the meat. I’d like coffee, but I want whole milk, not cream and no toast. Don’t use butter, oil or any type of (lubricant?) on my food.’

I am a health nut, and obviously, so were they, but this is the waffle house - not a 5 star restaurant. I think it was the tone that struck the wrong chord. I’ve worked in the service industry and as such, even as I have been more successful career wise, haven’t learned to adapt that intolerant ‘Master to slave’ tone that you see altogether too commonly.

As such, I was quiet when my order was slightly off, my eggs were cold and my raisin toast looked like mini-cockroaches had nested there recently. I was silent, even pleasant, when she complained about being overworked and tired, and my coffee cup had still gone unfilled.

It was an off morning for her, the place was packed, and there was a line out of the door - I could afford her some patience. When she laid the check down and saw my coffee cup, seemingly for the first time, she went to get the fresh pot that had brewed. I can see the movement in damn near slow motion. She picked up my coffee cup and with the pot in the other hand, began to fill it. I felt her look at me and when I looked up, she met my gaze and proceeded to drop the entire contents of the coffee pot and mug over the table. The pot dropped and broke on the table before falling to the floor and I, I had the contents of that pot racing towards my crotch at breakneck speed.

Anne cursed and got up to wipe away the puddle that had found her dress, and I had it on my dress shirt and entirely down one side of my pants. (Still smell like coffee, even if the clothing has been discarded, as I am typing this in fact.)

Other than the skin that felt burned, I was fine. Anne was annoyed and tapped her foot while the old man, who serves as little more than the door opener, cleaned up the mess. She bitched about her purse, some designer thing, being wet on the bottom. The waitress apologized profusely, her eyes welled up, and I still had not lost my temper. Shit happens. I told her that everything can be cleaned up and she seemed surprised that I had not been harsher.

I didn’t even bring up the mention of taking something off of the check. It is the waffle house, breakfast for 200 would only cost me $50 and it seemed petty. I walked to the check stand and waited for a rather large black woman to finish talking to her boyfriend.

However, when she stuck her hand out (I am assuming for me to hand her the check and money) and still had not bothered to spare me a look, much less a cursory glance, I felt myself get angry.

Here I was, covered in coffee, hoping I don’t have a second degree burn, still hungry, having eaten only half of my FUCKING COLD EGGS, and she couldn’t take a moment of her FUCKING TIME to offer me some GOD DAMN CUSTOMER SERVICE?

And I told her so.

Anne even cringed when I glanced at her after having delivered a commentary that would have made someone just a little brighter, feel like shit. I think most of it passed over her head like an airplane - barely noted. As I left, with Anne dragging my arm, those men who had set behind Anne and ordered that irritating display of precision, smiled at me and I realized that I had made their day.

Fucking bastards.

Couldn’t manage to get the car washed before going out…?

What do you see when you look at the image?