PW

There's a peacock that lives next to the pink mansion where I'm staying. He can be seen strutting about, plumage folded behind and neck bobbing, but more often he can be heard – oooWHAAooo oooWHAAooo oooWHAAooo. That's his proud mating call and he's always looking for more ass.

The pink mansion is next to a high-class catering company, a place that hosts weddings and other expensive functions. The peacock frequents their back parking lot and can often be seen swaggering along one of the limestone coral walls.

The peacock is introduced to me as Winston, since that's what the catering company calls him. A blonde bombshell in the house vehemently told me that the Peacock's name is Pierre and always has been. I am in a dilemma since Winston sounds very manly to me but Pierre taps more into that peacock flair. I decided to call him PW.

PW gives me a few pointers about the art of mating. You have to throw yourself out there, human. You need to flex what you got and be flashy, boy. You must have genuine confidence, dude (this last point was reinforced by overhearing a conversation among girls in the kitchen talking about some guy that I didn't know – it went somewhere along the lines of “I'm so attracted to him. He's a jerk, but he's just got this confidence!”)

I had underestimated how much ladies like confidence. I think it partially explains why nice girls sometimes end up with jerks. I don't want to be a dick; I want to use it. I want to cultivate a quiet confidence that will attract the right kind of ladies.

Before I thought I could just be quiet, fade into the background, and wait for a cute girl to telepathically pick up on all of my endearing, winning qualities. Bullshit. I had always scoffed at people who were too aware of their appearance – the guy who works for half an hour to get his hair to flip just right, the girl who tries on dozens of jeans until she finds the one that sculpts her ass just right. As a rejection to these endeavors, I developed an already naturally disheveled appearance. I wouldn't comb my hair, wear nice clothes, trim my nails or even shower every day. At the same time, I was being disingenuous – my hair had to be not combed perfectly and such. All this time, the people who were working on their appearance were being honest; they were working at the mating rituals that humans as animals can't avoid. I was doing myself an evolutionary disservice. It took a peacock to help me see that.

I stumble upon PW one day, and his feathers are unfurled. He is facing a fence and no females are in sight. Whatcha doing Winston? I don't think he likes that name because he folds his feathers back down and struts off. It takes me a few days to realize that he was practicing.

My good friend from college set me up in the pink mansion where his girlfriend lives. That is one hell of a friend, setting up a guy who he hasn't seen in a few years in a house with his girlfriend for two weeks. That sort of trust humbles me and reminds me that I'm damn lucky to have such great friends. His girlfriend turned out to be as awesome as he is, and she showed me around the grove, making me feel like not a burden. When I told her that I wanted to go to the bars on a Friday night, she obliged and introduced me to tons of people.

Now Miami is a bit like Los Angeles to the extent that being beautiful is highly desirable to the point of being big business. I saw plenty of boob jobs and even learned that there was such a thing as a butt job. I've always been one of those guys who loves big, natural tits almost to the point of worship, but I started to appreciate the artificial breasts beautifully done. The Almost Palindrome City is a place of headturners – nearly every 15 minutes I was looking at the women around me and going Goddamn!? I wouldn't say that there are more beautiful women here in Chicago or anywhere else – well, maybe a little. But it was also about presentation, what they wore and how they carried themselves. I would jog further just to get a glimpse of the perfect ass in front of me or sometimes slow down to watch the boobs move in perfect stride. I wondered if the women had practiced their movements in front of a full length mirror. I couldn't scoff at this type of beauty – it had to be appreciated. No, more than that, it would have to be acknowledged. I would have to flex my feathers.

So back to the bars on Friday night, my friend's awesome girlfriend introduces me to handfuls of people at Scotty's landing, an open air bar overlooking the marina. There was a blonde who looked kind of like Heather Graham – I couldn't tell whether her awesome chest was real or fake. There was a cougar artist – definitely super-cute with fake boobs. I also got to meet many latina women – I don't think any of them had boob jobs, but some of their butts were perfect, natural or not. I also met some cool guys and didn't feel that edge of manly competition that sometimes arises – there were plenty of beautiful women in Almost Palindrome City.

Boobs! Butts! I know that I sound like I'm 14, but I probably have about 10 years of catching up to do in terms of taking care of my appearance. Anyway before I went out that night, I put on an actual button-down shirt, took a shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair – motherfucking gel and everything. Despite all this, I still wore cargo shorts because I've always felt uncomfortable in pants. Guess what – that style is completely fine in Miami! I tried to feel genuinely genuine and bought several drinks for several women. I was also reminded that there are personalities attached to those boobs and butts.

I bought one latina woman with a great personality the most drinks. I wasn't trying to hit on her; I was more interested in talking at that point because she was a nurse and told me that one of her ex-husbands had testicular cancer. When I showed her my scar and added the usual disclaimer that everything still works, she said something along the lines of “I know, honey – the husband I was telling you about – he was the best, could go forever, rough too.” We smiled and started talking about tattoos.

My original idea for a tattoo was to get a separate part done at each of the stops. I would have these winged fins arranged at the same angles as the Sprint symbol, except it'd be a mirror image. The tip of each fin would have protrusions – the biggest would have 5, the next 3, 2, 1, 1. It would be the Fibonacci sequence (nerdy chuckle). I would only be visiting four places that I knew of, so the two, smaller fins would be done in Boston. Yeah, I still was new to the idea of tattoos. Each place usually charges a minimum service fee around $50, whether you want to get a dot or line. Also, each artist has a slightly different hand, so the winged fins may not look proportional. I decided to keep the angular arrangement, but get each artist to sketch something that stood out to me wherever I visited.

I've since abandoned that idea, because 1) I'm really happy with my Floridian tattoo and 2) I don't have that sort of money. I may try to add some glow-in-the-dark ink to my tattoo in Boston, since a lovely awesome lady who I get to see there gave me the suggestion, but for now let's get back to the Latina and our tattoo talk. She started showing me her finely done tattoos, and helped me reach some of the conclusions detailed above. She told me that if I found a great artist and there was a long waiting list, then I should wait. I didn't have the option but will keep it in mind for future designs. She also told me that she had an awesome tattoo on her back. When I asked to see it, she said she'd show it to me later. I wasn't sure what that meant, but we smiled at each other again.

I closed my bar tab at Scotty's landing and grimaced. The group of people who I met were moving on to another bar, but my friend's girlfriend who is now a good friend unto herself had to go home. I looked at the Latina pleadingly, and she offered to give me a ride.

At the next bar, I was taken care of by her. I didn't have to buy a single drink. She used to be a bartender in several places and frequented the last bar so much that she was a special customer. We talked and talked I can't remember what about, and then we were kissing. She took me back to her place and took even better care of me.

I was too drunk to do anything that night – we took a shower and I ended up knocking over her shower curtain and tumbling to the phone. The next morning after a few glasses of water was a different story. I got to see her back tattoo, part of it was a geisha who looked to be blushing since a birthmark was underneath. About three condoms and several positions later, I asked her where she wanted it.

“In my face,” she said.

“Haha, that'd be great, but where do you really want it?” I asked.

“In my face, please,” she replied.

“Oh uh, well...cool!” I said.

We found the lube as I titty-fucked her (they were real) and stroked myself. If you're a guy and you're reading this, then you probably know that you can stroke yourself off better than any stranger's hand, but give the following a try if you haven't already. Keep stroking until you're almost there, guide your partner's hand, and have them deliver the finishing blow. The Latina did it perfectly.

At first, I felt like I was cumming but nothing came out. For a split second, I worried that one of the possible side effects of my previous surgery had come to pass, but then my SuperBall shuddered. Most of it landed on her face and hair, but some of it shot over and hit a painting that had slid down to one end of her bed. The part near where it hit had a young woman holding an umbrella – oooWAAooo yes!

We smiled at each other again. This was the first time that I'd had one-night stand in the real world outside of school. I liked that outcome. The Latina I was with was also an avid reader, so she showed me a few books that she was reading as we cleaned up. She was searching for this perfect sentence to share. She knew that part of it had the phrase “without the disorder of love.” The phrase was all I needed.

She drove me home, and I didn't hear PW the peacock outside. He must have had a busy night too.

I had decided on my tattoo – the blonde bombshell drove me to a tattoo parlor that had caught my eye. The first artist had the quiet confidence that I want to develop. We were on the same page and set the date.

The day of the tattoo was after another long night out partying. More headturners and drinks. I tried very badly to hit on the blonde bombshell out of my league. She was very nice about it. Nice enough in fact to lend me her blue BMW so I could drive myself to the Green Machine Tattoo parlor.

The artist showed me his sketch, and it was perfect. It was a proud peacock feather with no frills. I smiled and grimaced as the ink needle hit my sunburned skin and jolted me from my hangover.

An hour and a half later, I had slipped back on my ARMY shirt and covered it with an open button-down. I drove aggressively and haphazardly in the blue BMW with the windows down and Spanish music that I didn't understand blaring. I grinned at people on the sidewalk, unafraid and unashamed to be just the littlest bit flashy.