But you’re not. I know already that you offer me nothing. But you are pretty. I want to have sex with you. I also know that you are blonde haired blue eyed slender traditional beauty with a college education so fucking you will be an extraordinary hassle. White girls are hard. It’s easier when you’re exotic to somebody. To you I’m just every douche on your high school lacrosse team.
And what a pain in the ass you are already. Your messages are nothing but “dance monkey dance.” Your profile is just one bit of banal self-aggrandizement after another. Like most women. If it weren’t for the genetic accident of your face looking like a small child I would have muttered go fuck yourself as I clicked OKC’s convenient trash can icon. But no one does that to you. They do it to the fat girls but never to you.
They do it to the fat girls but the fat girls still write one bit of banal self-aggrandizement after another. I love my job I love my school I am an artist I am “brainy” I am living my dreams. I am a yogini! I will whoop your ass at scrabble. If one of you had hemorrhoids and wrote an essay about groaning in agony each morning squeezing out hot bloody shit nuggets I’d marry her. If one of you said I dropped out of school and I work a shit job and I have to drink a pint of rotgut at the exact moment the sun goes down to keep my hands from shaking… where are you, lover. We drink tonight under the same moon. We could have top shelf liquor if you’d split the rent. Where are you.
It’s not you. Your shit is too together and no one ever tells you you suck. I’m not saying you suck either. You could be great but I’m never gonna know. You can’t know someone until you fuck them. And I think you’d take more than one date to fuck. Who has that kind of time.
You Should Message Me If, Part 3
I want someone to reenact Frazetta paintings with, basically. I in my burnished brass codpiece, chiseled deltoids rippling as I swing a double-bladed fire axe at a demon spider with sixteen cat eyes. You, astride the rampant beast in chains, nude but for a tattered bikini and a seal fur cloak that conveniently blows aside from your breasts and crotch in hot winds stirred by a distant alien volcano. Your buttocks could be credibly described as “meaty orbs.” My eyes speak of hellfire and lust as I land the killing blow. The unholy death shriek of the beast echos against the jagged black crags in the middle distance. Three moons look on. With another heave of the blade I split your chains. You are free, but your heart is my slave. I look around, furtively. I need a rag to clean off the stinging spider ichor. There is nothing. We are wearing virtually no fabric. I shrug, and we bone anyway.
How about it.
What Do You Do, Part 4
You know those Staples commercials where they show corporate board meetings. Where it’s clear that the people who made the commercial never had a job. That’s what my office looks like. Dark veneered wood. Gray file cabinets. A conference room where dumb platitudes are projected in Microsoft Powerpoint. I am wearing a bad suit. Other men in bad suits walk behind me chattering. They say numbers and facts about money into phones. They pause to listen to other numbers and facts about money. I look at a monitor. On it is a white spreadsheet with information about money. I look for the cell that tells me about someone’s money. Find it. I pick up a phone with many lights and buttons. Push numbers. Ask a secretary for the person with money. If he– and it’s always he– if he picks up I talk to him about his money. I do this for most of the day, most days, so my boss who is rich can be more rich. His office has golf trophies and two big windows. My office only has one window. But it overlooks a golf course. This is desirable. I have a view of a water hazard. It pleases me when the hazard disrupts a golf game. They look like ants from my window but I can read their frustration. Life is only good when someone has it worse.
What about you.
Something About Some Woman
You meet a girl. She makes you horny. So you like her. But you know she’ll bug the fuck out of you. Sooner or later.
How do you not push that moment. When you are “good with women” you force yourself to make it happen too fast. You look for flaws in her to gird yourself. Make it so she can’t get to you. Love is a fight and you stay on top by loving the other person less. You get to where it’s like this right away. From the first date. First minute. You get girls so you can feel something. But you can only get girls if you feel nothing.
This girl, though. It felt like nature meant for us to breed. Her armpits smelled like our kids would be immune to some ancient parasite. I want to rut with her and fill her soft belly full of babies. I like her accent. Her eyes. But she will bug the fuck out of me sooner or later. The “game” part of you pushes for that moment. Too fast.
Don’t push it. And don’t pull it back. Just feel what you feel. But you tell yourself: snap out of it. This is fleeting bullshit, your mind says. You know it will end so end it now. There’s no free lunch and you can’t break even. Love is a made up story. If you like them they don’t like you.
What can you do. God is evil. She will bug the fuck out of me.
Sooner rather than later.
Sobriety, Day Two
So as long as I don’t need sex, sleep or human contact, not drinking is gonna go fine. As long as my nights are just: couch. Tubes running fluids in and out of my mouth, dick and ass. Endless loop of Mythbusters on Netflix. As long as I can handle days pacing my apartment alone muttering half sentences, snarling in the mirror… sitting down to write but the words move too fast. This, and one hour a night sitting in a church basement. Me and the other weirdos glaring at two big vinyl posters of platitudes. Everything will be fine.
Went to my second meeting last night. Had a date after. Her house. She made burritos. We fucked. She was on top. There is a tapestry hanging over her bed, with an Aztec theme. My mind left. Journeyed in between the threads making up a slope-headed peasant carrying a water jar. I traveled through irregularities in the textured plaster ceiling. They were mountains on Mars, or some snow planet. Does this not feel good to you honey, she asked. Well yeah, it feels good on my penis. But the rest of me– my entire soul feels like you ripped off a scab too soon. There was not newly formed skin underneath but raw bloody twitching flesh. My whole being is made up of raw skinless meat and a cold wind is blowing over it. Except for my dick. My dick feels great.
I left. I felt bad. She brought up Valentine’s Day. She was a good sport about it. I will spend the night of Valentine’s Day in a church basement with weirdos.
The AA people told me it was a good idea to not be around liquor. I left my date and went to the liquor store to buy cigarettes. Imagined AA people spying on me. Watching me walk past the “LOTTERY, ATM” sign and the cutout of a leering Captain Morgan. Sadly shaking their heads. I made a show of walking out not holding a bag. The liquor store had fine deals on all my favorites, as is its wont. But I managed. I bought cigarettes and looked at the covers of old Hustlers. Law and Order Star Nude! Huh, I wonder which one– nah, I better get out of here.
Went home. Before I could fire up Adam Savage and Jamie “Cuntcrusher” Hyneman I got a text from the other girl. The one with the body. I saw you coming out of the liquor store, she said. Ha. I was just buying cigarettes, I promise. She was eating a truck taco by the Goodwill drop box on Sunset. Asked if I wanted to join her. I can’t, I can’t. I can’t join anybody for anything anymore. Either give me some fucking booze or go away and die.
I’m going to a date after this, I told the kind eyed AA woman. But don’t worry. There won’t be any booze. I showed up and the girl had a half empty bottle of wine sitting out and a half full cup poured. I was disappointed it did not come to life and speak to me. You ought to get yourself a sponsor early, the woman said. The guy who took me to my first meeting should be my sponsor. He was perfect. A soothing presence. But it’s too weird to ask. I don’t want to impose. Call me, he said, if you’re feeling squirrelly.
Well fuck, I’m feeling squirrelly. But part of feeling squirrelly is you can’t call people. Ain’t that a bitch. My sponsor is this document
I am typing into. White page: I feel motherfucking squirrelly.
Deep breath.
Daytime went OK yesterday. Woke up not hung over. Weird feeling, but good. Long commute. Instead of NPR I listened to music. It was Threefer Thursday. David Bowie was winding down. Next up in just a second, folks, we got some AC/DC coming. FUCK YES I screamed at the instrument panel, and accelerated.
The ads started. I haven’t heard a full string of radio ads in five years. But with AC/DC you don’t want to miss the first riff. How bad can ads be. Skit after skit about Valentine’s Day. Awful actors, awful writers, awful production… people fucking get paid for this shit. I languish in obscurity. Take your valentine to Pachonga Casino and Spa. She will delight in 2800 different slots. Buy your special lady a Hyundai at Glendale Auto Mall. Pay only 279 a month. Take out an auto loan for your fucking girlfriend, a failed weatherman was telling me. Has no one ever seen Judge Judy.
Fifteen more ads. Finally the guitar kicks in. DUH NUH NUH– fuck yeah! It’s Highway to Hell, my personal soundtrack for daily living. No Brian Johnson era Adam Sandler soundtrack shit. This was Bon Scott, the realest of the real. Fuck yeah, I told the speedometer. Right then I hit that mountain pass on the 10 East. Lost all reception out of L.A. Had to switch to Inland Empire NPR. A journalist talking to two other journalists. They discuss how other journalists discuss Gay Rights in Russia. Gay journalist says: Western journalists don’t discuss Gay Rights in Russia enough. Ivy League woman who owned multiple horses in her youth says: well Larry, the reality on the ground in Sochi is more nuanced .
If I’d been hung over I’d have broken something in the car when Highway to Hell cut out. But I listened patiently. Did you know you can buy an NPR membership for your pet, a jovial man told me. You’ll receive a stylish pet bandana. I did not daydream about lining up every person who had purchased an NPR membership for their pet. Their stylish bandana-clad pets with them. Taking a Vietnam era napalm thrower to the group. Highway to Hell plays loud enough to mask their screams. This is what it felt like to not be hung over. The day was OK. Then the night. Like someone slowly peeled back my entire skin and hosed me down with ice water. And again today.
Deep breath. Jerk off. Everything will be fine.
Nature’s Miracles
At the beach. A woman with big titties walks into the cold water. Other things are happening too– the thunder of the rolling waves. A flock of shorebirds at the waterline. Ibises I think. Skittering at the edge of the sand, digging for clams. Scattering back. They keep a tight formation. Ancient instincts going back to the dinosaurs. Huge brown pelicans glide overhead like pterodactyls; their brightly colored beaks. The majesty of nature and all that other jerkoff shit. She has big titties. Big titties.
I need to have sex soon or I will die. Specifically, I need to have unprotected sex with a woman between fifteen and twenty seven years of age. A new one. No one I have fucked before. The phone is an elephant’s graveyard of girl numbers. Many of them are cute. Some are even funny. But, you fuck a chick three times, she’s expired. I could write more thoughts on the matter but this woman has big titties. Big titties.
How do you talk to her. She has a navel piercing. How do you talk to a person with a navel piercing. I have rediscovered myself in sobriety. It’s been sixty days now. Shit you pushed down when you were drunk grows back fast. The way Chernobyl is forest again. Memories come back. Knowledge. Emotions. I am a healthy and functioning human being. Honest in all affairs. Guided by a loving God to be of service to others. But Jesus, who gives a fuck– the one thing I can’t do is get pussy. Without pussy, why are you alive.
She has big titties, and she’s getting farther into the water, giggling as the cold waves lap up and up; one makes it to her waist and recedes and she shrieks and her bikini bottoms are damp and her cunt starts to suck them up into its fat little crack and I need to throw her down in the water and get on top of her, throw my forearm in her throat, pull the wet nylon out of that fat cunt crack and yank it to the side and just pump my evil seed into her furiously before the lifeguard can run over and pull me off. Women, you understand nothing. Have a kid and maybe you’ll know. Watch your baby get run over by a dump truck. The way you want to throw yourself under the wheels to save it is about the way I want to forcibly rabbit fuck this sorority girl on vacation. All men, always, are just walking around with this. You can’t jerk it out of you. It’s just raging constantly, bubbling agony in your guts now and forever. You need pussy like breathing. And the world just waterboards you.
Women. The fact that you are not brutally raped– not just every day, but several fucking times per day by gangs of engorged male baboons– the fact that your mailman just hands you the Crate and Barrel catalog and smiles instead of strangling you with his government issue fanny pack and throat fucking you, relishing your tears, spraying his triumphant mailman nut on the geraniums… we are doing you a huge fucking favor at all times. We are watching our baby get run over by a dump truck, and just hearing him scream and watching him die. Holding back every billion year old white hot urge so you can feel comfortable walking around. I’m not asking you to like it. But take some pity on us, you merciless shrews.
I asked my sponsor: how do you get women when you’re sober. I’m a nebbish now. I rediscovered myself. Who I really am is a cringing unmanned dork with a hunched spine and raisin nuts. Girls used to smile at me on the street. Now I’m a slug that came out in the rain. I mean, fine– I hate women anyway. Smug peabrained cunts, talking about nothing.
But that baboon urge shrieks at you like a car alarm going off– get laid get laid get laid. So how do you do it. Go do ten approaches, he told me. Neil Strauss game tips circa 2004. Motherfucker, do you know who I am? I fucked attack pussy on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
Tears in the rain. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Heaven is deaf and hell screams and screams.
Instrument of Thy Will
You know that feeling. Where you drank every day for 20 years. By the end you were blacking out a couple times a week, alone. You were yelling at cops, getting in fights with women– Lesbians duke it out; the straight chicks just bite you. That feeling where you had a solid 20 years of that going on. You accomplished nothing in your career. Your net worth is negative ten thousand dollars, despite your fancy schools. Your car is 35 years old. It cost $1200 on craigslist. The master brake cylinder’s about to go; the thing barely stops. Breather hose is disconnected and just spits blue smoke. The engine doesn’t turn off when you kill the ignition. You have to rev it up, floor it for about ten seconds to push all the diesel out of the fuel line. You have to do this getting home at 10:30 PM in your parking lot that is just under the window of the building next door, where a nice woman has a new baby. Floor your loud as fuck poison fume spewing 1970’s diesel engine late under her window, gas creeps up into the vent and fries the little fucker’s brain. He’ll look at his schoolwork ten years from now and the letters won’t form words, they’ll just dance. No money no job no wife no kids no art no nothing. You have done nothing with your life. Maybe you kept the cat alive but come on, a monkey could raise a cat. Even the cat would be better off without you.
Drank every day for 20 years, every 6 weeks or so you’d get cocaine, jabber meaninglessly at douchebag guys and girls who would never fuck you or if they would you couldn’t get a boner. Spend six hours when they go home sucking up your last bumps while making artificial pussies and jerking it to horse porn. Needless to say you were a pig with women. They hated you when it mattered and now you hate them and you just fuck your way through them like a machine. Internet dating was invented right when something in you cracked. Like a weirdo getting his first gun. From there it was just tear em up. You can’t talk to women for shit in real life but the internet, fuck man. They loved you, a lot of them. Why. Probably because you’re tall. No, no, see– one of the things you have to get over is hating yourself. Hating women, hating other people, hating yourself. You are worth
y of love. God made you and God only makes things perfect. Well OK. You were worthy of love and got it. You didn’t return it and you only made their lives worse for knowing you. You took them on a date and got them drunk like a machine and then fucked them and never spoke to them again.
Pussy was just another kind of booze. You needed it to not feel ugly. To hell with the pain in the ass thing it’s attached to. You ought to go to the AA for sexaholics, too, you thought. Your home AA venue also serves as a Sex and Love Addicts room. Their vinyl 12 step poster is like the AA one, except it’s diagnostic. 1) We admitted that we used intimacy for (blah blah blah, some bad reason). A list of symptoms, kind of like “you might be a redneck if.” And if you compulsively use OKCupid for unprotected sex with strangers, no intention of seeing them again despite your “looking for” listing saying only “long term dating…” you might just happen to be a redneck.
You wanted to change. You stopped drinking. Which meant you stopped fucking. God became part of your life. Fuck off, He’s helpful. And you went three months and finally you thought: it’s time to date again. How do I do that without hurting someone, you asked.
Go have fun on your date, He said.
You went. She was cool. You were open and human with her. And she with you. And yes, you fucked her. Yes, you made her stand over the cat bowl on the porch on the off chance that your 70 year old neighbor would look out his window. He’s a sweet man and deserves something to look at. But it wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t bad. You were open and honest and vulnerable and it felt good, it felt good… this part of you was God-given too. It didn’t have to be hurtful. Mechanical.
The Pussy Page 9