Road training and mental preparation are essential to any great Olympian, if he expects to perform above and beyond the call of duty. After all, when you’re on a sex tour, everywhere you turn aggressive young women will sexually assault you, and it gets quite difficult trying to defend yourself.
When you return, porn stars will be banging on your door asking for your trade secrets. Your buddies will corner you in dark rooms; speak in hushed tones, begging for mere crumbs of your stories… and pictures.
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You gotta tell me man, what’s is like out there…. how do you do it? ? Like a humble self-made billionaire, you just chuckle, looking off into the distance, and say….
“ It’s a performance art ”
Arriving at the battle scene for the first time (at the most popular club in that vacation city), you should be prepared for complete shock and awe. The walls are lined with gorgeous women eyeing you up and down, licking their lips like sexual predators. Each girl is on a quest to lure you in, and whisper in your ear her overwhelming desire of seducing you multiple times. You feel like a Swedish Supermodel walking thru a fraternity house.
Deep down you know exactly what the situation is. The girls are here for one reason…to exploit you for money. They are using you. Treating you like a piece of meat. When it’s all said and done, they’ll even demand an entire evening of marathon sex with you. If you’re not careful, they’ll get their girlfriends or their sisters to join in as well. To make it even more humiliating, the girls will leave in the morning, never to return. No whining, no complaining, no imaginary problems, no bitching and moaning, there isn’t even any quality time… the nerve of these girls. It makes you want to fake the orgasm just to get even.
Suddenly, your mind drifts off into a fog, and you imagine yourself back at home, married, and at an all-you-can-eat buffet. In front of you is your 250 lb. American wife. She’s droning on and on endlessly about how you never listen to her, or something like that, who knows, you weren’t paying attention anyway. Then you look hard at her. Real hard. Nothing like witnessing an angry cow stuffing her grotesque face full of cottage cheese and ice cream. She’s devouring dessert like a frenzied hyena at the last supper. It makes you sick to even glance at her. Try to envision the weekly trough bill. Imagine the grunts, sounds and smells after her third and fourth flush.
You wake up screaming.
Welcome back from hell, let’s return to your vacation plans. Planning for battle takes training and strict discipline. You better be prepared, or you’ll be a flash in the pan in a day or two. Because, the inevitable happens to the best of us in the beginning. You arrive, and in the first 48 hours devour 6 different women, drink 6 cases of booze, and get friggin’ 6 minutes sleep. By the third day of your trip you’ve already become irrelevant. You’ll be sitting alone in a sports bar at 10 am, shit faced, watching the same ESPN highlights for the sixth time. You’re repeating the lines by now, making perfect imaginary wagers on each game’s outcome to no one in particular.
And then it happens. An 18 year old Latina goddess saunters on up to the bar, bats her green eyes at you, licks her lips and starts stroking your thigh. She’s the girl you’ve always dreamed of having since high school. She’s purring in your ear, and begging you to hit the sack with her, and all you can do is to blurt out in a heavy slur no thanksssshhh.