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Me? Things fell into my lap. Women fell into my lap. It was a blessing, and it was a curse.  Something about me, something about the way I come across, something about my eyes. Whatever it is, and whatever it was, I had it. Hell, we’re in a meeting here, just a few years ago, right in the conference room on the other side of the office, when Linda Shoemaker, who was sitting right across from me, just lost herself, completely lost herself in me, in my eyes, saying, in the middle of a meeting, “You have got the most gorgeous bedroom eyes!” I couldn’t believe it; didn’t know what to say. Neither did anyone else, as the meeting came to a sudden halt for a few seconds that seemed like a few hours.

The thing was, I never went looking for it. It always came looking for me. Or, rather, it always found me. My problem was that I enjoyed it too much. I enjoyed the challenge of seeing just how far I could get with a woman who has shown interest in me.

G’head, let me look at you, let me look into your eyes with mine. Let me catch you. I saw you somewhat looking at me. I saw you somewhat interested in me.  You can’t not look again, can you? Come on, look at me. Look up at me. Look into my eyes. Please. C’mon, please. That’s it, catch my eyes. That’s it, get lost in them. Now move yours away, but just for a second. That’s it. Now, bring them back, bring them back right back into my eyes. There you go. Bingo.  I’ve got you. You’re mine.

Simple as that. 

So fucking easy for me, catching the lady.  I was never looking, but was always on the prowl. I was never actively wanting or needing, but was always able and willing to pounce. It was so easy.

For whatever the reason, finding company, finding companionship, was always easy. In the grand scheme of life, it was simple.  

That was always the problem – in the grand scheme of life, it was too simple.

It was a problem that needed to die.

I was not a good person.

Oh, in the grand scheme of life, I suppose,

in comparison to others in the world, those

who raped and pillaged and plundered and

murdered and stole, then, perhaps, I was a

good person.

But in the reality of life, where personal

relationships were judged, and the actions

of those involved in them are judged, I was not a good person.

I used to think that my shit didn’t stink. I was always right. My opinion was always the one that mattered. And even if I was wrong, it could not have been my fault. This especially applied in my marriage to Jennifer Barnes, although, quite frankly, realistically applied in my professional life, as well.

The difference was that, in my professional life, I was nicer and more honest about it. I had people, though, in all facets of my life believing that I was, and still am, a very nice, smart person with an even-keeled head on my shoulders.

Whether it was my marriage or when dating others, or, actually, within any relationship with another person, male or female in my life, I was always called “the voice of reason.” And I loved that. I loved that people would come to me for advice. I loved that people would come to me to talk to about what they should do about anything, because they truly felt that I had such a good head on my shoulders.

I bought into that. I believed that. And I took those thoughts with me everywhere I went, every day of my life.

Let me cut right to the chase:  I have been a sociopath for much of my existence. Maybe not to the extent of famous sociopaths such as Ted Bundy or Dean Arnold Corll, but a sociopath, nonetheless. Liar. Cheater. Asshole. You name it.  But here’s the kicker: You’d never know it.  You’d never believe it.  I’d have you thinking that you’re so fucked up in the head, and that everything was your fault, long before a finger pointed at me. That’s how good a sociopath I was and am.

I was also a cheater.

I was one who loved the companionship of another woman, even if and when I was already with another woman.

Was I a so-called “ladies man?” Yeah, I suppose so. Was I a “player?” No, certainly not. 

There is a difference between being a “player” and being someone who fools around just for the sake of doing it, just because they can get away with it.  A “player” will look to conquer as many women as possible. A “player” will go out specifically wanting to “hunt” for female prey. A “player” would make it a point to go out for the sole purpose of getting laid, fucking the hottest thing they come across that night, and then leaving them off at their house, with nary a reason to ever see them again.

Jonathan Michael Harris is represented by 20 A-M Productions, LLC and its public relations agency, 20 A-M COMMUNICATIONS. Copyright © 2019, 2020 Jonathan Michael Harris and 20 A-M Productions, LLC All rights reserved. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.  SUPPRESSION is a fiction romance & erotica novel that contains adult and explicit content. Intended for mature audiences only. Not intended for those under the age of 18. For publicity-related questions, please contact: Michael@20A-M.com. For general questions, please email: SuppressionBook2019@gmail.com.