Current wingmen seem to take offense when I ignore them for the pleasant climes of some frau's peach patch. Last night I was turning on a saucy blonde with pink patent leather spike heeled boots. Much to the consternation of the guy who had taken her to Mickey's Blue Room for an apparent date. While pressing her unrestrained nipples into the back of my arm she, smokily voiced, asked me to coach her on the pool table. I especially like the way she continued to hug me after making a shot, unshackled tits jiggling all over my body, while I kept sneaking in fingers along the hills and valley of her rump. I'm a horny little weasel that only needs a shallow crack to slither into the chicken coop.

Scratch, Skin and Slab would have cheered me on, nay fervently assisted in having the sweet young thang's juices painting my body by night's end. Indeed, one of our mottos was; it matters not if she is seemingly with another chump, the mack can always be persued until she throws up the palm.

Current posse maintains a stance of; dude she's with that guy. Whatever.

Scratch was a shaved head, pierced and hinduistically tattooed, alterna freak social butterfly. He could descend into a crowd of honies and convince them that they desperately needed to be hangin with our crew all night. He actually wasn't as aggressive in the trim hunt as the rest of us, but he was a serious charmer.

Dude got his balls in the hitch. He's the married man I dedicated six entries to in describing the splenderifous matrimonial event back at the end of April.

Skin was a lanky, blonde southern transplant. Had an acerbic and brilliant humor well honed by years of munching window pane in his youth. Liked to pile in the booze. Super intelligent. Was a confusing bad boy asshole, that the ladies devoured like he was made out of Dove bars. His particular talent was to laser in on one chick from across the room, and persistently break down her barriers till she was eventually scribed into the pussy history of sire Skin's mack tome.

He fell off the planet.

Slab was this insane ex-hacker, all black clad, BMW bike riding, meglomaniac. He also had a cock the size of a baby's arm holding an orange. Never was priveledged with a viewing of his member, but he was quite free letting the world know what he was swinging. He had all the hook ups. Never been to so many hip and happening NYC underground and well reknown events in all my life. Dude inserted us into the secretive party ring of absinthe alchemists. The man knew how to corral pussy. Extra special expertise was splitting diminutive asian women in half with his trouser missle, and having them at his bootheel for more.

We fell out because of this, that and the other. He's slightly a paranoid bedlamite. Still see him occasionally, and he's still holding up the freak mack bachelor lifestyle.

Three seperate occasions I can remember the four of us enjoying cocktails at a bar. A sweet chick acknowledges our presence, we all give that smirky nod of familiarity. "Man she was fun." "Wait, you fucked her?" "Yeah, you fucked her?" "Hold on, the two of you fucked her?" "Heh, you're not gonna believe this......" The four of us chuckling into our Stoli gimlets up. That's correct, we all seperately opened up the same chick at least three times. Was a fairly common occurence that two out of the four would have had tasted the nectar of the same lady. But all four, christ it makes me laugh nervously still. We weren't even intentionally passing around the booty. Women migrate to the cocky guys with the skills. Can't help it if we consolidated four of us circulating in the same hood.

Ah how I miss the days of the four ass bandits wreaking havok on the Lower East Side. The memories, she is sweet, no?