More on Mark’s wild megadose adventures comes to us from the aptly titled thread, No, no, no, NO! The girls are over ~there~…
No, no, no, NO! The girls are over ~there~ (No, no, no, NO! The girls are over ~there~)
MarkL (September 2007):
“My neighbor Harry lives down the hall. When I leave my apartment and turn the corner, at the end of the hall is Harry’s door.
Harry’s in his 20s and I guess more than a bit curious about me. Over three years he’s made it a point to converse with me, introduce me to his parents and friends, ask what nights I like to use the laundry … all in the scant minutes we’ve both happened to be arriving or departing the premises at the same time. He now knows I used to work for his company, a large consulting firm, and has tried to recruit me back into the fold.
Let me back up a bit and I’ll return to Harry. My boss, unexpectedly, decided to give me an extra day off today, one of those “on the spot” you-done-good rewards. So I decided I would use this extra day to get well and truly drunk. Consider it a spiritual purging exercise – I usually prefer one or two beers followed by bottled water. I haven’t been drunk in perhaps a couple of decades, though I haven’t been counting.
So, I really had no other social ambitions or goals, just wanted to approach the “euphorically intoxicated” level as the taxi delivered me home, not earlier. But I decided it would be fun to do a megadose adventure while I pursued a sweet oblivion that had not been earned, strictly speaking, from a karmic point of view.
Now, you should also know that there is only one bar in Chicago (that I know of) that pours top shelf liquor for $1 per drink on Tuesday nights. And it happens to be a gay leather fetish / biker bar, perhaps it’s the same one as in Madison Tate’s The “MAD TATER” Journal (The "MAD TATER" Journal)post (see #3), I can’t say. But the glasses are clean, and they unstintingly pour generous Bombay Sapphire Gin and tonic for a dollar on Tuesdays.
This bar is hardly one of my favorite places in the world. The bar manager/front bartender is an obnoxious person who I dislike for many reasons but who has become astonishingly obsequious to me since I started using Androtics products. My phero bomb should help me neutralize his fairly poisonous presence. The bar’s marketing for Tuesday draws a crowd of … well, drunks, mostly … and that’s not typically appealing to me. Offset that with the antics of gay leather/biker folks and it has some comic and tragic potential. I can always leave and pay more for my favorite gin elsewhere.
In any case, I decide to drink there, and I calculate my phero megadose adventure package based on my destination:
- 10 mcg of androstenone to navel,
- one drop of mutant A314 to chest
- 500 mcg of Androstadienone to chest and scalp,
- 350 mcg of alphanol to head hair,
- 40 mcg each of alpha and beta Androstenol to the back of my left hand.
- 20 mcg TAA oil to my upper lip, 40 mcg TAA oil to my neck,
- two sprays of Instant Shine 2x to my neck.
(If I’m going to get drunk, I, at least, will have a sense of fun about me while I do it.)
I shower up, and decide that as part of the spiritual exercise, I will walk the two and a half miles to this disreputable establishment. I can use the exercise in general, and a long walk also lets me work on a rhythmic pelvic/spinal balance.
I put on my clothes, decide to skip a shirt and wear a leather bomber jacket instead. Just before I walk out the door, on a whim, I decide to add another spray of 10 mcg (Microgram - Wikipedia) -none to my chest and jacket, but somehow my finger twitches and one spray (unconsciously) turns into two. (I’m now sporting 30 mcg of none.)
And then I immediately walk out the door, and turn the corner, and “Lo!” and “Behold!” whose door opens at the end of the corridor?
Harry’s.
Had you forgotten about Harry? He smiles when he sees me, but as I approach, he seems to get a little skittish.
(No drydown at all, my 20+ mcg (Microgram - Wikipedia) of -none is in his face, along with the rest of my pheroreek. I’d expected to walk for an hour or so before meeting anyone.)
And then, staying a few steps ahead of me down the cross hall to the elevator, Harry’s asking me, over his shoulder, if I’ve been to a new bar just a block away, another “welcome all sorts” venue … but he emphasizes “There are girls there, lots of girls.” Is it my imagination, or is there is slightly plaintive look in Harry’s face.
I’m afraid poor Harry had the idea that I might decide to mount him right there in the elevator, and he wanted to make sure that he was providing me with “reasonably convenient alternatives”.
'No, no, no, NO! The girls are over ~there~"
Reality is much stranger than fiction.”
No, no, no, NO! The girls are over ~there~ - #8 by MarkL (No, no, no, NO! The girls are over ~there~ - #8 by MarkL)
MarkL (September 2007):
“Quote:
Originally Posted by Nunya
did i read this right? Did you go to the bar in leather drag? I love it. And I’m sure you frightened the heck out of old boy. I’m guessing with the none and the bare chest you totally gave off a “leather daddy” vibe.
Jeans and an old leather jacket are perhaps the absolute minimum to ‘fit in’ in a bar like this one. I’d hold the “leather drag” sobriquet for some combination of leather jockstrap, bare-assed chaps, harness/halter/collar and vest or leather cop shirt … of which there were many examples that night. Add leather armbands, wristbands, etc…
I’m not sure I have the requisite … intensity? appetite? … for kinky dress to qualify as a leather daddy. I just don’t find leather clothing erotic in itself, unlike the ‘genuine article’ leather fetishist. So I’d guess I don’t really give off that vibe, or I’m not aware of doing so.
Quote:
Originally Posted by tisha23
Now there is one confident Alpha male.
Wish I could have seen the look on that guys face LOL. Great story. By the way did you have fun at the bar. Any hits you would like to report?
Tisha
Ummm, I wish I could take credit for some particular bravery or courage, but c’mon: guys who get hot over a leather garment or who sniff Lexol now and then aren’t exactly menacing. They have exactly the same kind of kink as a guy who needs to sniff a pair of panties or who feels compelled to look at photos of ladies’ forelegs in high heels. (Though I do clearly remember a time when people seemed to be on a mission to impress upon me that fetishists were evil and depraved.)
It seems to me that in the gay leather crowd those who go out of their way to look the most fearsome and intimidating are the “submissives” – it’s a kind of shit test for “tops” to make sure they will really … uh, truly kick some ass. (Whip some ass?)
Quote:
Originally Posted by Phoenix
I want to get that riding crop cologne…
Good point, Phoenix, I can never really distinguish between the bdsm enthusiasts and the pure leather fetishists, and for all I know, there’s a lot of crossover. Ass-kicking or whipping would be more bdsm; getting personal while wearing the leather gear would be more of a fetish thing.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Astrocloud
This story is so good. What happened at the bar?
Well, first of all, the loathsome, pissant bar manager was on vacation, and another bartender had the run of the front bar. He’s got an absolutely stellar A-1 reputation for discovering alternative music and it was his Ipod hooked into the bar sound system. I’ve gone out of my way to hear him DJ at other clubs / dive bars. The music ~was~ excellent…
So, just walking in the door my expectations shifted and became much more positive, upbeat. But my basic program was calculated to reach the euphoria / excitement threshold of intoxication and … do a little screwing with people’s heads pheromonally while getting fuzzy.
The evening turned out to be fairly mellow, and my series of gin and tonics let me lazily circle down into mostly alpha-wave, just a little sensorily-challenged consciousness, with slightly “bigger” gestures and feeling. just. fine.
Ok, the phero ‘hits’ were mostly mundane, and run down like this:
- The bartender/DJ couldn’t decide for about 20 minutes whether or not to chat me up; finally he stopped to talk and when we found a friend we had in common (in the alt music scene) he got comfortable and settled into pouring. It was the “should I chat or not?” pacing back and forth that I count as a hit … in other circumstances I’d think he’d just walk up to anyone and talk or ask whatever was on his mind.
- A fellow who sat down to my immediate left clearly was under the combined influence of the alphanol megadose to the hair as well as the a-b mix on my left hand. He talked fairly non-stop for about an hour, made a few surprising disclosures (surprised ~him~, from the look on his face) then seemed reluctant/hesitant to leave. I think I could have converted this into a liaison, but I had other intentions/business.
- Another fellow who arrived later paused his rapid drink consumption to come down the bar and tell me how much he liked my boots (nothing admirable, not “Docs” or any of the other standard fetish boots, as I’m aware of them) and would like to have the opportunity to lick them. I regretted to decline what I took to be an invitation for some private time to attend my boots, but allowed that he was welcome to lick to his heart’s content while I was there drinking at the bar … at which he paused, uncertain, then seemed sad and then returned to his drink. (I was close to my last G&T at that point, and I guess my reply was … perhaps a little cruel. But not, apparently, out of order, and given serious consideration.)
A few other IOIs (No, no, no, NO! The girls are over ~there~) but nothing distinctive or remarkable. There was some loud, boisterous “tag-you’re-it” play among a group that might have been evoked by the alphanol, or at least the loud talk might have been. Inconclusive.
PS: Glad you enjoyed the narrative, regrets that “the rest of the story” doesn’t match that one moment when it seemed Harry was desperately trying to find a girl, any girl, to throw in front of me. I’m truly curious to see what our next meeting in the hallway brings …”