I was just outside, down the street, in the unseasonably warm autumn weather, texting Storm and leaving her messages.

I went heavy on the sex. Some guys would question this. They would suggest I should focus on the love and romance. But Storm is a healthy woman with normal desires. She has pent-up heterosexual lust after a lifetime of being forced to be a pseudo-lesbian with her friends. She wants me, not her girlfriends. I have made her connect the notion of sexual climax with breaking through mentally against her internal barriers. I have taken the most powerful, basic of human instincts and turned them to work for me in my eternal quest to get what I want.

One of my lucky breaks is that I am a beautiful male. Any girl would be happy to sleep with me. I didn’t brag about my looks to Storm, I just talked about fucking her hard and ecstasy and being happy together and living a full life. Storm doesn’t want to hear me be vain about myself, so I avoid that assiduously, although I am very vain and arrogant. Storm is insecure about herself sexually vis-a-vis me. She feels like a failure, sexually, even though she talks about moving together as one, both partners in the sex act, and accommodating each other. She’s worked it all out. She knows what to do. She probably has a stronger sex drive than average. She wants to spend it all on me.

Sex is easier to visualize than love. Fucking is a fantasy world that dovetails nicely into the dream world she so constantly finds herself in. More than once, she has explained to me that she feels like she’s living in a dream. It should be borne in mind that her kind of girl lives a wholly artificial life and cannot spread their wings fully. For generation after generation, she and her group have had sex with the very best of men, the smartest men, the best looking men, and had girl-children, who grew up to do the same with the next generation of the very best of men. Inadvertently, they have been practicing a form of all-natural genetic engineering, a project which has taken them from the distant past to the world of police officers and all-wheel-drive cars and powerful technology, applied daily.

So Storm is a kind of sexy model, a kind of intellectual genius. Being with her won’t be that hard. She’s already better than most girls, by a long shot. In addition, she’s a leader. She’s spent tons of time coordinating the efforts of a bunch of humanoid cats that refuse to be leashed and that do their own thing. She’s been a mother-figure, smoothing out conflict in the group, and a project leader, taking charge with her expeditions throughout the city to ensnare hapless men in unavoidable scenarios which feed Storm and her followers emotionally, sustaining them.

Storm is now ready to be with me. I feel infinitely better right now than I did earlier. I think I’ve turned the corner. It is likely that we have some kind of emotional bond between us which allows us to coordinate our actions and work together brilliantly. Storm is changing as I change. We are moving hand-in-hand into the future.

I am still dark and mysterious. My ultimate goals are shrouded in flowing mist. Storm is a far simpler being than I am. I reduce myself to be compatible with her. I make sure to concentrate on my cock and her tits, ejaculating cum, holding hands and laughing lightly and being romantic together, all the things an endlessly fantasizing girl likes. I have been the ideal lover-at-a-distance. When we get together, I will be the ideal lover-in-the-flesh.

Time. Time is on my side. I still have $11,000 in the bank, easily enough to last me until she makes her breakthrough. I am hoping my debit card starts working again tomorrow. The cashier said something about the limit being reached. I spent a fair amount of money yesterday, and have been using my debit card heavily. Maybe that’s it. If it doesn’t work, I have cash in my wallet which I’ll stretch out as long as I can. I’ll have a Visa card which I’ll tap Interac-style to make food purchases. Maybe I’ll go to the public system to get food, if I have to. I don’t want to remove myself to Niagara Falls to be with dad at this critical juncture with Storm, even if I run out of food. Food is the crucial limiting factor.

We’re now in the final end-run. As always, I am optimistic and realistic. I sometimes wonder if there are forces out there which can intercede against me, almost supernatural powers that I’m not accounting for. The regular powers of society — the cops, the liberals, the corporations and the better class of men who worship pussy — are not going to be a factor in my life. I’ve made calculations against all exigencies. I’ve worked out arcs and trajectories for the future. Storm imagines my sweet cock ramming against her flesh walls, and I imagine what could stop me in the volatile present. We have different priorities. For all her brilliance, she is not complex. After a long time, I’ve made her the ideal woman. I’ve been performing “brain surgery” on her with every encounter, and I’m still doing it now. I’ve been meddling with her, interceding, tampering with her mind and heart, making her grow and mature, relaxing her automatic defenses that fuck her up, giving her new life.

She has something I want. Very badly. I’m doing this for what she can provide me with, not for the desperate woman herself who is so obsessed with me and addicted to me. She can make my life more advanced more strategic. She can expand my options infinitely in every direction. This is not because she’s so great, but because — through a fluke of nature — she has access to something I fucking want. I am giving her sex and love to get this great something-I-fucking-want. I am building her dreams, using what she already wants, putting filigrees on her needs and desires, understanding her as a woman, as an authentic human being, understanding her as a sentient thinker alone in a harsh world. I am a dream-giver. I am a provider of emotions and pleasure and occasionally the lash, which she doesn’t mind ultimately. She interprets it as romantic interest in me. She interprets everything as romantic interest in me. I don’t disabuse her of that notion.

She may be reading this. I don’t know and I don’t care. She just doesn’t get it. In most ways, she is like a thirteen-year-old girl just awakening to her own sexuality and her need for fun, exciting love. In contrast, I am like a thousand-year old hybrid of Caesar and Napoleon and Hitler without all the human weaknesses who is leaning across a chess board to take the final victory.

Who do you think will get what they really want in the end, and keep it?