wimpy whiteboy

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to say my first real Girlfriend was a Dominant would be further from accurate than left is from right. Femme Fatale might be a more accurate description if any of our fist meeting had been arranged by any type of malice and or forethought. But the fact is, I meet her through a friend I was going to school with because she went to an entirely different school. I was drunk on my ass and flirting relentlessly despite the fact I was told she was dating this rich guy for the past year and recklessly because I actually didn’t even realize how really attractive she was until I was to see her the next night in a much vision friendlier state of mind.

But that night the moment I got home and to my surprise it was her friend Katherine who wanted to make certain I got home alright because I was really, really drunk. I was a little too shocked by Katherine’s call because I was certain she wasn’t calling about herself because she had a boyfriend she literally kissed ass on and the kisses increased with each and every crap on he took on her. This despite the fact that she would have actually been the one I envisioned to wear the spiked heels and crack the whip one day. A small backstory to their present relationship would have been really beneficial to me right then and there, but unfortunately I didn’t get to hear the tale until any useful to me from it had far passed.

Anyway, Katherine corrects herself and emphasizes that it was really Suzanne who wanted to know if I got home okay. Suzanne was really, really concerned with more getting home safe to which I hear Suzanne in the background laughing hysterically and asking her to ask me if I remember almost hitting the ambulance and Katherine hushing her as she was about to ask about another daredevil drunk driving event I had showcased sometime during the evening so she could talk to me some more with more emphasis on her friends name each and every time she found a reason to slip it into sentence after sentence more times with so many increasing run on sentences than not until finally I was so lost in the many possible scenarios sexual and even clean and romantic that she finally had to ask me if I was still there.

Yes of course, I told her. So what do you think? About? Duh?Â

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it may come as a surprise when i define (or maybe redefine) the label “wimpy whiteboy” as having nothing to do with the physical or even the external for that matter. Nor does it require the absence of any abstract assets such as courage or the lack of any sexual powers or underdeveloped reproductive organs. Not that each and every one of these things may not be a characteristic or more likely the byproducts and or final equation resulting from how the whiteboy’s wimpiness is managed and manipulated. That may very well be the case, intentional or otherwise. But if you focus more on the fact that management is not only needed, but also desired, you’ll have a much better chance of getting to the heart of the wimpy whiteboy and finding out what makes him tick.

The coined phrase “wimpy whiteboy” is a state of mind much like “Californication” or “Feeling Minnesota.” To dare go one step even further and keeps things in the tone of racism, I’ll declare that the wimpy whiteboy does not even have to be white anymore than the “nigger rich” fool who parts with his money is expected to be African American.

How does one spot the wimpy whiteboy? They don’t. Unless of course one happens to be a fairly experienced Dominant. Ninety nine times out of one hundred, that Dominant will be Female even if the wimpy whiteboy finally ends up on the leash of a Master instead of a Mistress.

Nothing is more essential to the proper growth of the wimpy whiteboy than the proper conquest by and evitable surrender to his compatible Mistress or Master.Â

I lost my virginity rather late considering the overblown reputation I had. The girl who took it was a notorious town tramp and school slut. Up until then my problem had been that all the “good girls” were terrified of me due to a false reputation that only God knows how it came to being, and the “bad girls” thought I wasn’t interested since I didn’t know how to make a move and thus didn’t live up to my reputation. One girl in particular had figured out the real problem and wasn’t about to let me off easy.

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