I Used "The Secret" To Manifest A Tall, Blonde Man Of My Dreams


I mediated the perfect man I wanted - and he became real.

Remember the movie The Secret? The one about how if you just think positively and specifically and then let it go, you can manifest anything you desires? Well I’m here to tell you that shit is REAL. And no, it’s not because I am some hippy-dippy do-da who smokes too much weed. It’s because I have manifested CRAZY shit. For example, a free (yes really F-R-E-E) $500 Eurorail pass, tickets to a private Foo Fighters concert, a peach lip gloss, a designer blue and white striped strapless dress, a free trip to Miami and believe it or not even $10,000, (yes it was legal).

And all I had to do was ask with all my heart, say thanks, and let it go.

But even I was shocked when I manifested a person I can only call the Dutch Jesus. It all started in a far away land called Aruba where I had been invited to judge a pageant. On my first night there, the rest of the judges and I all met up in the lobby to go to the opening night party. While waiting for the van to pick us up, I was introduced to Andres, the very cute host of the show. My first thought was "Meow!" My second thought was that although he was cute, I wasn’t entirely sure it was appropriate for the judge to hook up with the host.

But as I normally do in these conundrum-like situations, I decided to leave it up to the Universe. If it was meant to happen, it would.

Once there, we meandered outside to the giant backyard where a DJ, dance floor, and bar had been set up. I was sipping on a glass of champagne, wondering if I should go flirt with Andres when another judge, Luke, tapped me on the shoulder.

"I have a present for you."

I followed Luke through the crowd of contestants. Next thing I knew, Luke pushed me by the shoulders and stood me in front of a couch next to the dance floor. A grinning Andres was sitting there.

"Have fun guys," Luke said and then strolled off into the throngs of people.

The gays really make the best wingmen. I’d have to remember to thank Luke later.

After a whirlwind of dancing and drinking, we finally made it back to my hotel ... for what was the WORST sex of my entire life. He had all the moves of a 10-year-old boy. I’m sure the homeless man I saw shooting up heroin in clown makeup back in New York would have been better in bed. In fact, I wasn’t sure what happened qualified as sex. It was more like necrophilia. Because I basically laid there until it was done, hoping for a quick finish on his part.

For the next two days, I laid out at our hotel’s private beach staring at the crystal blue water hoping to erase the horrifically shitastic shag fest from my mind.

Unfortunately, after downing three pina coladas, I still felt scarred. I knew what I needed to do; screw a Dutch guy! Aruba is a Dutch colony after all. I needed to find myself a tall, hot, blond, Dutch dude who’s packing down below — and good in bed. Now, that’s a way better souvenir than some dumb magnet. 

After the beach, I went back to my hotel room to meditate. I pictured a tall, blonde, Jesus who was hung like a horse and had the cool confidence of James Dean. I imagined running my hands through his long blond hair, his piercing blue eyes, and deep voice. I made him so real in my mind, I could taste him. (Note to self: Do not do this with cupcakes).

At the finale party later that night, I ended up being bored as f*ck and spent most of the evening trying to self-medicate with booze. There was no sign of the Dutch Jesus, much less anyone cute. Andres showed up after an hour and proceeded to behave so nervously around me he could barely speak.

After what seemed like forever, the rest of the judges finally came to their senses and decided to go elsewhere. So we headed to Salt and Pepper, a local bar where impromptu salsa dancing is known to take place. With still no sign of the Dutch Jesus, I finally resigned myself to the fact that he wasn’t coming. I hit the dance floor with wild abandon, swigging back cocktails, and giggling like I was on laughing gas. Then out of nowhere another judge named Ray turned his head towards the door and said, "Girl look at that."

In walked one of the tallest, blondest, most blue-eyed men I had ever seen in my life.

His long, scraggly hair was several inches past his shoulders. He was wearing a beat-up red tank top and a pair of cargo pants. He looked like ... a blond Jesus. I knew my powers of manifestation were powerful, but this was some voodoo fucking shit. I wondered if I should start some sort of coven when I got home.

"Girl you need to hook up with that. Look how tall he is. Can you imagine how big his dick is?" Ray continued.

"I don’t know, but I’m going to find out!" I replied. I know you can’t always tell what a guy is packing in his pants from looking at him, but mere height proportions would dictate he had a baby’s arm down below.

"So are you from here?" I asked coyly as I sat next to him. It was the cheesiest line ever invented, but I have the pick-up skills of a monkey.

He turned to face me. He was so unbelievably hot I felt like I was looking at the sun.

"Yeah kind of. Well I’m from the Netherlands, but I live here now. Where are you from?"

"New York. I’m here judging a pageant."

"So can I buy you a drink?"

And with those magic words, the flirting began.

Turns out the Dutch Jesus was six-foot-seven. I’m 5 feet 1 inch. 5 feet 5 inches tops in heels. The mere idea of his height was making my panties moist. A mere forty-five minutes later — after my fellow judges made me promise that I would relay all stories tomorrow and making the Dutch Jesus swear he would take good care of me — we were in Jesus’s truck on the way back to my hotel. (For the record, I would normally never get in some random dude’s car, but yet again I figured it was fine since God sent him to me).

Needless to say, Jesus lived up to my vision. He threw me around, yanked my hair, and did everything he was supposed to do, unlike my friend from the night before. His dick was so immense, it actually made wind tunnel sounds as it went in and out.

The next morning after he went to work, I got up and did a dance of joy. I looked in the mirror to check out my post-coital glow. Actually, I didn’t have much of a glow but I did look like I had been electrocuted. My hair was completely frizzy and knotted in the back. Nonetheless, I could now go back home feeling redeemed from my previous night of bad sex.

And to think people say The Secret is bullshit. They don’t know about the Dutch Jesus.


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