I stood atop Pikes Peak Summit (14,115 feet / 4,302.31 meters), a feral king next to that stone wall, my Miami beach-bum vibe erupting—shirt shredding in the mid-summer breeze, no jacket, just a sun hat blazing with unhinged swagger against the storm brewing overhead. Mother Nature, a drop-dead gorgeous temptress with her sun-kissed peaks and misty allure, locked eyes with me, her warm breath daring me to test my 15-minute limit before her 4-hour wrath took hold. But I wasn’t here to kneel—I was here to ravish her wild essence.

With a blazing glare, I faced her stunning form, unleashing a raucous 15-minute tangle of dominance, snapping a photo mid-thrust of passion, flipping off every lame, obese, tat-plastered hater who’d ever branded me “nerd.” “Choke on your pathetic envy, you gutless, ink-stained fat bastards!” I roared in my skull, the mountain groaning with our frenzied rhythm. I gripped her rocky slopes with reverence, tracing her curves with a lover’s fervor, feeling her quake with feral glee. She was a knockout, and she devoured it—my reckless fire, my savage lust—as we spun in a steamy, earth-rattling dance, her whispers urging me deeper into her embrace.

As the air thickened and her mood turned vicious, I tipped my hat, flashed a wicked grin, and strode off, warmth and hot apple cider waiting in my truck just 10 minutes away—my only safety lifeline. The mountain released me with a mocking roar, her echoes pulsing with delight, while those haters withered into dust, their insults incinerated by my triumph. But heed this: Pikes Peak has claimed countless lives—never try this in the middle of winter, when trucks are banned and safety’s 4 hours away, turning it into an instant death sentence. I’d taunted her spirit, claimed her as my goddess with a lover’s kiss—and left my doubters as broken, jealous wrecks, groveling in my shadow.