I started off with the vanilla man on woman stuff butsoon grew tired and ventured to the more sacrilegious ( in the mind ofa 14 year old) man on man stories. The stories spanned a plethora ofdifferent genres and each was more thrilling than the last.I was in jack off heaven I gained so many fetishes in that small timethat if , given a rock in a bikini , I could probably blow my load to it.I was content to waste away my days jacking off and sleeping. Butalas, my parents were not. If I wasn't going to return to school thenI would at least get a job and become a productive member of society,this boiled down to doing odd jobs for neighbors and family friends. Imowed mrs Henderson's lawn once every two weeks for such a smallamount of money that, were I an illegal immigrant I would have happilymoved back to whatever communist dictatorship I came from in returnfor a bit more cash.All the jobs and wanking slowly formed the entirety of my life. Thatwas until I was given a rather unusual job. The translations couldn't do it justice. Learning the old Persian dialects had posed no great difficulties for an accomplished language afficionado. The poetry, in its primordial, untranslated version, rang as clearly as a bell in the empty cathedral of his heart.His previous attempts to approach women had invariably ended in disaster. They either laughed or totally ignored him. In the shark-infested waters of the dating market, a balding middle-aged professor is dead meat.But the poetry, ah, those magic syllables, that hypnotic rhythm.Some crazy impulse made him walk into a dance club. The Snakepit was a maelstrom of drifting blue cigarette smoke, mirrors, flashing multicolored lights, and loud heavy metal music that made meaningful conversation superfluous. He sat down at a battered wooden table two vacant chairs distant from a woman. She was a young dishwater blonde, still in her twenties perhaps, and she gave no sign that she noticed his presence. Or would have particularly cared.
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