Locked On Target
I turn away from the group that I am with in the bar, the laughter at my tale still loud and suitably intrusive to cause other patrons to look our way. More fuel for me of course. It is then that I see her, stood at the bar waiting to attract the attention of the bar tender. She is not thrusting a card or note in the air demanding to be served, she is not hopping up and down trying to get in the eye line of the relevant server, no, she is stood waiting patiently. A good sign. Patience.
She is tall, not as tall as me, but only three of four inches shorter. An excellent height. She wears a tight elegant dress, black, no it is navy blue and it exhibits an exercised and properly nourished body. She knows how to look after herself. I can see from the fabric that this is no item of fast fashion but rather an enduring piece of classic attire. This also tells me that she has maintained her body shape and size for some time. Prudent, classy and disciplined. Super.
The Intimate Partner Primary Source is in devaluation. She is elsewhere. Where? Somewhere, but that is irrelevant right now. I knew you would ask that question, so asked and answered. I must return to the matter in hand.
I note the slender wrists and the way that she leans against the bar, her hands resting on the clutch bag which is placed on the bar. I cannot make out the brand from where I am stood. Her nails are manicured, but not in a brash manner, she does not wield garish multi-coloured talons, but rather neat nails with nail varnish which is some shade of red difficult to see precisely given the coloured lighting that plays onto her hands from the lights over the bar. Her fingers are long, nimble, I suspect she can play a musical instrument and I can picture a book resting in those neat hands. She prefers the texture and feel of the book as opposed to the electronic digestion of her literary meals. I momentarily wonder if a copy of Sex and the Narcissist or Manipulated has ever found its way into her hands and that amuses me.
Her hair is ash blonde and is cut so it rests on her shoulders which are bare. She has good shoulders, defined, strong, made for gripping. Made for biting. Her skin looks to have a slight tan, she does not look like someone who is a prolonged seeker of the sun. She is continuing to look across the bar as she waits to place her order.
Now, do I have competition. Actually, that is flattering of me to reference it as competition, a better description would be, is there a distraction? Who else lays claim, or rather may try to lay claim to her? I break away from looking at her to ascertain if anybody is watching her, watching over her, observing me looking at her. There is a group to the left, all women and I see a couple glance at her, doubtless to see if she has been served and brining them the required cocktail. There are no men in the group and the looks of the men suggest friendship, rather than anything more meaningful. She is not gripped by anybody sapphic, although I am sure she can embrace it at my direction, should the need arise. My cursory sweep of the adjoining area of the bar does not determine anybody who would prove a hindrance or distraction.
Now, for the most important part. The face and specifically the eyes. I continue to stare at her, ignoring a question from one of my friends behind me, he can wait. He does not persist in badgering me for an answer, he knows better than to keep doing that, that is why he remains a long-standing Non Intimate Secondary Source, some do learn.
My gaze bores into her. Come on, look at me. I urge in my mind. Turn, turn to me, HG wants to see more. The music playing in the bar has faded, the noise of conversation, the intermittent bellow of laughter, the sound of glasses and movement has become muffled and suppressed as my focus tightens on this lady.
In my peripheral vision, I see the problem coming from the left. Oh, I do not think so. Another customer is walking to the bar and he will, like the moron that he is, place himself between me and my quarry. I make considerable use of my peripheral vision, it serves me well in both my professional and private lives, I see things coming before others do and that gives me a distinct advantage.
I take a step forward and move to the bar, forcing the interloper to swerve around me and go behind me. If he had moved in front of me, I would have bumped into him, taken his wallet and thrown it behind him and pointed asking “Is that yours?” in order to make him move. Well, that is of greater subtlety than knocking him to the floor, this isn’t the bar for that kind of behaviour. Not tonight anyway.
The pocket dipping proves unnecessary and now I am roughly six feet from the lady as I stand at the bar, my body angled so that I am partially leaning against it, my eyes remaining locked on her. She will look, she will feel my presence and she will look my away. I wait.
Her head turns and she glances at me. Her eyes meet mine. It is brief and she glances away and I know what is coming. Yes, they come back and she looks up at me once again, my presence having pricked her to look this way and then that first exchange of glances sufficient to ignite her interest.
In that instant, as she looks at me, looking at her, this is when the magic happens. I see in those brown eyes the compassion, the kindness, the honesty, the decency, the intelligence, the keen enquiring mind. I have spent so many years learning what the eyes signify and I have ensured that I know what you are from looking into them. So much is gleaned from them, you give away so much from what shines from your eyes and when I say you, I mean the empaths of the world.
There is nothing you can do about it, other than I suppose wear sunglasses but that is going to look rather stupid in a bar at night and she is not Anna Wintour, fortunately. You are unable to hide that burning empathy which is always present in your eyes. You cannot make the kindness, the honesty, the considerate nature which radiates from your eyes and ones such as I recognise and target. The expression formed through those eyes is open and welcoming. There is no defence there. There are no walls, no moats, no towers of rejection, just a warmth and the flowing emotional empathy.
The look in her eyes is reinforced by the slight smile which is there, it is one of self-deprecation as if she should not be looking and feels ill-mannered for doing so. Boundary recognition. She has it. I do not. Her nose is long and refined. She wears make-up which accentuates rather than masks and I determine she is in her 30s, a little younger than me. Her face has a softness to it, I detect a sense of fortitude but she is not hard-faced. This is not a face which stands at bus stops in freezing winter drizzle.
The fact I find her in this bar suggests she has a decent enough income. There is no accompanying individual which reinforces that she has independence, not that it would prove insurmountable if she were attached in some way to another. Everybody is there for the taking.
All of the above information has been assimilated in under a minute.
I want her. I want to possess her. She is another trophy to be collected. She knows the rules, they all do. If you come on my radar, you belong to me. You are mine. She will not put up any stern resistance, I can already discern that from the way she has looked at me. She is interested, she is pleased my the attention of the well-dressed and handsome stranger. She wants to know why he has looked at her, she wants to know why he smiled and did not avert his gaze but instead continued to drink her in. Of course, she has no idea that I was already starting to drink of her fuel, but that does not matter to her. It matters to me. It matters that she will be brought under my control. I feel the flicker of invigorating fresh empathic fuel as it mixes with the established fuel from the secondary sources that were gathered around me from my coterie. Hers is delightful, light and sparkling, I feel it fizzing inside of me. I want more. I want to sink a new pipeline, attaching her to me and feel that potent, bountiful, fulsome fuel pumping and coursing along the pipeline from her to me. I want that fuel as it signals she is coming under my control to surge into me, bolstering me, filling me up, ensuring that it remains silenced.
I have another that will belong to me. Just like all the others. All the other possessions. She is mine, she does not know this but she will come to realise that soon enough and she will do so without me even having to tell her. She will learn and embrace such ownership with almost naive delight. They all do.
I want to educate her, I want to draw her memories into me. I want to consume her experiences, I want to suck her world into my veins and feel her moving through me. I want her breath, I want her kiss, I want her sounds and sights to become mine. I want to close my eyes and see her at eight years old carefree and running through a sun-kissed meadow. I want to see her at her graduation, smiling towards those proud, proud parents. I want to see her nervous at the top of her first black run and then giving a cry of excited fear as she sets off, which becomes the steady cry of triumph as she masters the piste. I want her thoughts to flow into me, I want to absorb her knowledge and understanding, I want her everything to belong to me.
She continues to look at me, then away and then back again. Her smile grows and she looks down and back up again, those eyes, that sanctuary beckoning to me and promising such salvation.
The pipeline is now attached and the fuel begins to flow.
I feel the surging inside and m vision narrows as the sights play across her elegant and beautiful face.
I am locked on target.
53 thoughts on “Locked On Target”
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HG, I realized that it has now been four years since I stumbled upon narcsite. I am grateful for the insight and here’s to your continued success – clinks a glass of champagne of your choice – impeccable I’m sure 🙂
You are welcome SW, good to have you here.
Another great one hg…she is locked on and she has no idea… this was wrote very well I enjoyed it I always wanted to hear how that happens when you see the target …now I would like to hear the conversation between you and her. Thanks for this hg..you remind me of a friend that I used to be cool with we would go out to the club…or be out at Walmart and he would stand outside on his break him and I and he would say…”damn this girl is fine as hell” and I would agree with him and we would say you should “you should say something to her” and I would say “nah I don’t know her like that and besides she probably blow me off or something ” the next thing you know he would whistle at her or say “yooo” and not bore you with everything he pulled out his phone and handed it to her and after some small talk she put her number in his phone…and on the main screen it said ” U EZ BITCH “… on his main screen and I asked him about a week or 2 later about the girl and he showed me graphic video of her and I was like damn…and he goes “see i told you should have said something “
Thank you CJ.
CJ
For a minute I couldn’t work out if you were talking about the Fragrent Pamela or ‘The Target’
HG, is there a Part 2 ?
No, Eternity.
Thank you HG.
This actually made me feel nauseous. Met my narc at a bar and unfortunately there was an instant attraction. Had I known this is how they think I would have never went near him. I had an 8 month golden period but my intuition was screaming that something was wrong although I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what that was. Commitment phobic? He didn’t want to know anything about me which I used to my advantage. He knew nothing but I studied all of his weaknesses. I could see through him you see. Saw through the lies and manipulation very quickly, the phone games and the disappearing acts. I didn’t understand it at first so I dumped him during the golden period. Went back a second time then dumped him again. The third time I suffered terribly. My cat went missing. I cried floods of tears. It took a few more months to realise who and what I was dealing with, then I played him at his own game. Silent treatments, ignoring him, mocking him, intimidating him. Laughing at him and playing on his so called demonic possession. He never knew what he was going to come up against but it was never submission or succumbing to any of his manipulations. He’s too afraid to come near me now but the final cost was very high. I’ll never know how terribly my cat suffered or where she is and that was my point of no return. I’ve since learnt that I am a magnetic super empath and my light is dim for now. It will shine again though as I am staying out for good.
Thank you HG for teaching me who I am, what I was dealing with and the fact that I super nova’d his ass. He is a pathetic, cry baby midranger who can have the next victim.
You are welcome.
Atscay,
I am glad you finally saw through him and found your way to HG’s work.
I am so sorry about your cat.
Dear Mr Tudor,
This reminds me of a “locked on” situation in a recent movie we just saw, ‘A Walk Among the Tombstones’ with Liam Neeson, when the killers roamed the streets in their car til they “locked on” to their target or should I say ‘victim’
I read where it takes a criminal less than 7 seconds to decide their next victim
The trouble is, we tend to let our guard down when we venture into a bar, clubbing or night out with the girls, a few espressos or or GT’s under the ol Spanx and you’re purring like a kitten
Then a tall well dressed distinguished gentleman saddles up to you beaming like a Cheshire Cat with eloquent tones, of course, he will always grab one’s attention …. there’s so few these days
Thankfully, you’ve enlightened our senses
Superbly described scenario
Luv Bubbles xx 😘
Ah, Bubbles, it was good to read this comment. It gave me a few giggles as you can imagine 😉
I’m as always happy to hear you’re another woman’s problem.
Pamela, Pamela
What’s going on love? Do you need to talk? Shall we talk about the three strands of Empathy love?
Nope. I’m good.
Pamela , dont you wish you were her.
PS the only problem here is you.
Ah, bless you. Here to help. Like me. Pam”s not the problem. Her “emotional thinking is”. Only in a different way that you and I understand. How was the weather for you today? It turned out lovely, eventually, where I am. 🙂
Do call it for what it is, AE, she does not have emotional thinking.
Ah, no. Poor thing. Do I need my wheelbarrow to provide my ’empathy’? Or do I need to buy a violin? Ah, bless you for being understanding in “her situation”. God, I’m such a bitch. Ah, I don’t fkg care. LOL.
It’s all about the Control and Fuel in her world.
I was thinking that hg i was like sounds like a lack of empathy there for a sec a red flag 🚩 went up immediately
Hi Asp Emp, i just saw your comment . Enjoying the day with friends today and being single feels good. Thank you for asking
Pamela doesnt have ET. She has a lack of it!.that’s where her comments start. She has to find fuel somewhere I guess.
Take care sweety
I know – why do you think I used ” ” LOL.
AE
No one really quite knows what’s goes on in Pamela’s mind. That’s half the fun.
Here’s a thing. Why don’t we run a book on how many times she’s mailed Hg this year? I’ll even offer odds. The whole lot goes to the AAF and the winner gets a prize.
Oops
Which I will donate.
Half the fun – where’s the rest of it then? 😉
I am not sure if HG would permit betting on his site. I’m surprised he allowed the comment through to even hint it LOL.
Ooh, a prize. Wonder what it would be. LOL – such a generous offer of you to donate to AAF.
“No one really quite knows what’s goes on in Pamela’s mind.”
Well, HG does; he just isn’t terribly interested.
Brilliant.
I’ve been taught by the best.
Vi
Tis true. Tis true.
Sorry Renarde , I think I will pass on that one
HG is many women’s problem. In addition to all his personal and professional fuel sources, there are, of course, the Tudoristas! (Big improvement over our previous problems, BTW.)
Vi
I do not think you were around when the concept of ‘The Tuderallas’ was announced by some young ‘wag’.
I said a very firm and clear ‘No!’. Thankfully, a message was understood, somewhere.
I actually wanted to call us TNP, ‘The New Promethans’. Sadly, that was vetoed to.
I buggering hate the veto. (When it works against me.)
I was thinking of the Sandinistas and the Zapatistas.
Violetta, that’s what I think of too when you use “Tudoristas.” And of Rage Against the Machine.
Speaking of music, Violetta. Guess what song I chose this morning to welcome the first day of the month while we had coffee? That guitar… ❤️
Some one needs to write a comic series or fan fic about HG as an anti-hero who saves empaths but also abuses them and include Pamela in it as a nemesis please! And make it funny.
I would do it but I’m too lazy and consistently tired, I have good ideas but I’m not going to wake up early enough to see it through
The only problem with that Witch, is that you want something that includes Pamela to be funny. Cannot be done. She is just an epsilon semi-moron.
But HG hear me out, episode one, Pamela kidnaps one of us and sends you a ransom note stating that you have to admit you’re the real Harvey Weinstein and that you sexual assaulted her and give her 1 million dollars “or your precious little empath is dead!” Then you have to go on a rescue mission…
Because by day you are Henry George Smith
But by night you are HG Tudor narc eliminator
Pamela can’t tie her shoe laces, even less kidnap anybody.
Witch
I actually want to read that!
I have a feeling we should probably ignore Pamela so she goes away. She will be bored if the crickets chirp and no one rips her a new orifice. The problem is my narcissistic trait of Taking The Mick Out Of Pompous Twats (I believe that’s the official term, but let me know if I have misremembered) tends to comes to the fore when someone reminds me of the kind of person who enjoyed bossing people around in Jr. High and dreaded high school because the pond was too big.
Ignoring is the best policy, most of her comments are just insulting and word salad, so they are deleted.
Witch:
But he can’t be Harvey. HG showed his yarbles through the pub window and people were entertained. Had he been Harvey, people would have been sick on the floor.
Seriously. The guy has some kind of condition. If you are ill-advised enough to do an image search, you can see why he frequently resorted to forced cunnilingus rather than PIV.
Yarbles!!!! Ha ha!
Vi
I have actually googled Harvey’s yarbles…
Hahahahahahahahaha!
Hg
Disagree. She’s unintentionally funny which is even funnier!
Renarde:
“I have actually googled Harvey’s yarbles…”
You were warned….
I seriously don’t know how his ex-wife could stay with him for so long. Even for a gold-digger, that’s asking a lot.
Official Cease and desist letter.
You have been identified as being a slanderer over the civil legal issues concerning Pamela Swain.
You have repeatedly interfered with her ability to retain gainful employment. You have maliciously spread false information and created unbelievable slanders against Miss Swain.
Your testimony may be requested under oath as to your specific verbal conversation about Miss Swain in the future.
If you are identified again as spreading illegal slander and causing malicious trouble against Miss Swain, you will incur a lawsuit and will be held financially accountable for damages against Miss Swain. It would be in your best interest to cease and desist your conversation and involvement in Miss Swain’s personal affairs.
P. Swain
Your comment lacks particularisation, locus standi and has no actionable basis in law or in fact.
Unlike my claim against you.
@ Renarde
Thanks 🙂
Pamela has help from that other little weirdo who use to come on here with the joker icon, however he flees the scene before HG arrives leaving Pam to do the rest of the dirty work.
HG turns up to the warehouse with Pamela’s father
Pams dad: “ pammy get your fucking arse in the car before I smack you one, you’re a little bitch just like your mother”
*pam starts wimpering
Defeated
And the empath is rescued – the empath is extremely grateful to HG so his fuel level reaches 100%
Then stories of a mysterious man with a posh accent who rescues women from deranged narcissists spreads through out the city