I realize that you young dudes deal with digital pictures, where we old timers dealt with pictures in wallets and such. I am totally outside the know when it comes to digital pictures, and how one of your women might get access to a picture of one of her rivals. Let us just say that this should be avoided. I will use my own dubious past as an example of how close to the edge of sanity things can get when your stable of ready mares grows to unmanageable proportions. The thing to keep in mind is that a stable tends to become unmanageable at some point before you realize it is unmanageable.

At one point I was, while renting a barracks space in Ajay’s condo, seeing these three ladies at the same time. Let us be clear that they knew that they were not the only one, even though they had little information about each other, and that I did everything I could to make certain they never actually ran into each other.

Becky was a savage little divorcee who saw me at every opportunity. Becky was a whore—not a for profit prostitute, but the type of woman who sees every intimate encounter as a transaction ran on some form of credit that exists beyond the bed space.

Mrs. Bedwrecker was unhappily married and pretty much viewed me as a twice weekly orgasm provider. Mrs. Bedwrecker was a slave girl through and through, who just threw on a trench coat after she got out of the shower, grabbed a bottle of wine, and told her husband she’d be right back as soon as she was done shopping at the easy mart. Being a gentleman, I always stamped ‘return to sender’ across her rump with the palm of my hand, and sent her on her wobbly way.

Bessandra was some beautiful out of state babe who worked for an airline and flew into town one weekend a month so that she might be treated like a slave girl by someone a touch more subtle than the hockey players she normally dated up north. Besaandra was a manizer with a slave girl fetish.

For some reason they all preferred being on top, facing the front wall where my computer monitor sat below the black ink sketch of a faceless woman disrobing on a chair by Joseph Bellofatto, for which Bessandra could have easily modeled. Bessandra was the artsy one who used the—now long gone—depression between my six-pack and my chest to pour tequila into and drink from. Mrs. Bedwrecker liked the erotic control, and Becky got better leverage for punching from the top mount, so they had different agendas behind their rodeo inspired choice of position.

One day, after Becky threw her clothes at me for about the 1,000th time, she reached into her purse and pulled out a picture frame, with a picture of her in it, and then stood it up on the desk next to my keyboard. I looked on puzzled as she came over to the bed, mounted up, grabbed me by the throat, and then looked over at the desk and snarled, “Yeah, that ought to scare the other whores away.”

She then looked me in the eyes and said, “Promise me you won’t touch the picture.”

I so promised and she continued.

The next time Mrs. Bedwrecker was over, and she sat back to take another drink from her glass of wine, she almost spit it up all over Ajay’s white carpeting. She then dismounted, walked over to the desk, and slapped the picture face down. When she remounted she looked down at me and said, “Sorry. I don’t know how you do it, but I can’t get off with that scary looking bitch staring at me.”

And so the picture of Becky lived it’s up and down life, with Becky standing it up after throwing her clothes at me, and Mrs. Bedwrecker slapping it down as she let her trench coat hit the floor.

Bessandra took note of the picture one day in between shots of Goslings rum, and smiled crookedly across the intervening space, looked down at me, twinkled her nose, and then whispered huskily, “If I ever see that bitch in person I’m running like the wind. She’s a smoker—obviously—not a chance of catching me.”

She then looked back over with a, “Hmm, I was thinking taller and younger—maybe a little pale, blonde even. I suppose someone has to keep you in shape between visits.”

Over the next six months Bessandra would stop and look at the picture—sometimes standing up facing the Queen seat on the bed, sometimes face down. Eventually she checked the dust on the back and the top and inquired, as the rediwhip bikini she had dressed up in the kitchen began to run a little, “Not allowed to touch it, are you?”

“No, I promised.”

“You see the married one twice as often—at least here.”

“How’d you know there was a married one?”

She turned and grinned at me like I was a stupid child, placed a hand on one hip as she spun the face down picture the wrong way with the other hand, and said, “Silly man, these bitches are keeping score with this picture. And there is no way the other one is as hard looking as this bitch, so you better believe, if she was not afraid of getting blackmailed—if she was single—she’d put her own picture up. There is more dust on the back than the top—married chick in the lead. I was thinking of dropping off the Cancun photo, but I’ll be nice, keep them guessing who the third player is.”

There you go young men, if you are as stupid as I was at your age, you need to learn ahead of time how your girls keep track of each other so that you can predict any disastrous behavior and nip it in the butt.