Postmortem
They were at Brite Spot. His first date since he knew for sure the thing with the girl was over. Everything was fine and then the speakers played John Waite’s “Missing You.” 80’s night. After that, Elton John’s “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues.” He’d been told to pray when it hurt. Dear Lord, why not just have the clouds spell my name and form a middle finger. His date had the kale salad. Yeah, I went to a couple Sex Addicts meetings once, she said. Dear Lord, forget I complained.
He fingerfucked her against a tree by Echo Park Lake. They went to her house. Her pussy felt the same as the girl’s and he thought he was cured.
He was going to text the girl if the date didn’t pan out. what are you doing. All lower case no punctuation. Taking the capital “W” off “what” required more work then just letting the phone autocorrect, but gave the appearance of nonchalance. what are you doing. He’d been her fuckbuddy after all. That’s what he was for. She said he was built like a Ken doll. Meant as a compliment. She had black hair. He had a long haired black cat. At night he would wake up and see black on his pillow and think: thank God, she isn’t gone. He reached out to touch her. An asshole appeared by her ponytail.
What are you doing, why did you leave me, did you even leave me, are you with him right now. The tall guy with the drawl, she said I didn’t like him at all at first but you know four glasses of rosé; you and me shouldn’t have sex anymore, she said, and every time he’d ever heard that he’d got the best ass of his life after. This time was no different. She was hung over and they laid in bed all day talking. She told him a story. For a second he saw part of her she didn’t share. Like riding in a car in winter, passing a house with a window lit up at night.
He woke up with the new girl naked against him. That felt the same too. Sickness passing and in its place emptiness. I’ll take it, he thought.
**********
The night of Fourth of July her dog went crazy and when he parked three blocks away he heard her barking. When he got to the house the girl was in a towel and the dog was soaking wet and shaking. Distant booms rattled the windows. She jumped in the shower with me, she said. She’s never done that before. Never barked like that before either; it’s weird. I think she knew it was you.
Yeah, she smelled me.
He sat down and the dog sat with him and she wasn’t shaking anymore. She knows I’m the man of the house, he thought. Knows I’ll protect her. The booms kept coming and the dog wasn’t scared. Thank God she didn’t think I’d stop the noise. I’d really look like a douche.
They were going to go out but they stayed in and did crosswords. He picked her up and bent her over and lifted her poufy white rich girl towel and fucked her with her wet black hair sticking to her back. He could see her face in the dark glass of the door. Her eyes were closed. She was perfect.
The next day they went to the beach. Waves so big they’d knock you over. They were laying down finishing the crossword and the dog sat on his back. She asked: when can I meet your friends.
They all hate you, he said. I told them you’re breaking my heart.
Because I won’t be your girlfriend?
Yeah.
I was honest.
I know. They think you’re using me. I do tell them good things about you.
… like what?
You look 14 and suck a mean dick, he said. And she laughed.
He’d told them he liked her a lot. That he could see himself with her. That she was pretty and easy to talk to and had her shit together but not in a drink the Kool Aid careerist way that made you sick to hear about. How rare she was. How he hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Hadn’t thought it could happen.
On the last day, laying in bed, he asked what the tall guy thought of the dog. He hates her, she said. He’s insulted that I let her in the room.
Well he has a point, he said. She’d grind her cunt on my knee when we fucked and stick her face in trying to lick my balls. It’s distracting. And watching her eat my cum off the sheets. It bugged me too, he said. Thinking: when a girl brings up another guy, defend him. Do the opposite of what you feel. The game was over but his instincts had been beaten into him.
You were cool about her though.
She did bother me at first, he said. Barking her head off. Licking my face with that fucking garbage mouth. Now I love her though. I’m gonna miss her more than I’ll miss you.
It was true.
**********
By the end it hurt him to think about her. She took him to her boss’ vacation house in Palm Springs. Her friends came out. It was the weekend after her birthday. She’d had a party too but he opted not to go when she told him to act like they weren’t dating. Her boss was rich and famous and his house had a movie theater. All weekend they sat by the pool and when another guy would touch her shoulder it was like a cigarette burning the back of his neck. Someone brought a book by Ernest Hemingway. He read A Very Short Story and thought: I need to go get gonorrhea. But when they fucked he was back in it again. She got on top and when she was about to cum she made a concerned face like a baby about to burp.
**********
The morning after the new girl he said goodbye and put his pants on and walked out onto Alvarado Street. There was a wildfire somewhere and the light looked like the apocalypse. His phone vibrated. His heart stopped for a second. What if it was her.
It was a friend. A guy. It said This girl is driving me nuts. Men would text him their woman problems. He told them go fuck another girl. They thought he was a genius.
Why are we made this way, he thought. You like them and it makes them not like you. Find someone good and she ends up hurting you more. No free lunch in this world. But why do you get stuck with the bill when you’re still eating the fuckin meal.
He sighed. dude let it go, he texted. find someone else. pussy’s pussy
App Review: Tinder for iOS
I should tell you I’m married, she said. This after you’d taken off your expired Trojan, the ribbed kind that comes in a gold wrapper; it was so old the gold foil was flaking off so you took the condom and filled it up in the sink after and watched it for leaks. Your jizz chunking up and swirling around like a snow globe. If you had known you would have just stayed in raw and blasted in her. If you’d known some other guy would pay for it. Her husband must be white too. What Mexican married to a Mexican cheats on fucking Tinder. The plan could have worked out and your bloodline might have lived on. Not now that she waited to tell you. No sense of timing. But we’re separated, she says. Ah well, you were smart after all.
Why did you have a ribbed for her pleasure condom in the first place. Not something you would have bought. Not because you don’t care about her pleasure but because it would have embarrassed you to buy something for her pleasure. You couldn’t countenance the Walgreen’s morning clerk with the gauge earrings thinking your penis was inadequately textured. It must have been in a fishbowl in the AIDS testing place, some time in 2008. It was a thick one. You barely felt fucking her, but in retrospect, good, because it held up. Now you could tell the other girl you want that you did not have unprotected sex with multiple partners since you got tested. Just the one. Just the 18 year old and what could she possibly have. You would leave out the part where you went in raw to the hilt with the married girl, a couple pumps just to see what it felt like, which you always do and so does everybody else, always. If she has herpes you have herpes. Why worry, we’re all gonna get it someday.
You meet at a bar. You have nothing to talk about so you talk about Tinder. How long you’ve been on. This is actually my first ever Tinder date, you tell her. Me too she says. Fuck. I wanted a veteran. Now I have to do a bunch of god damn hand holding. Agnes does not want to be with me. She is overseas taking swarthy Mediterranean cock in all orifices. I want what was promised: Grindr for straight people so I can forget her for five minutes.
I miss her and I miss her stupid dog and I keep pushing it down and it keeps coming back.
&nbs
p; Paul McCartney is playing at Dodger stadium. The traffic is crazy. Let’s go up to the park and maybe we can hear it, I tell her on her third beer. You still have to say stuff like that. You can’t just say anyway let’s go fuck. The park is behind my apartment. I put her against a tree and lift her up dress and fingerfuck her until she’s hot enough to start biting my lip. Paul sings We Can Work It Out. The old man sounds pretty good. We go inside.
Tonight I have another date. She is also married but up front about it. Open relationship. I want to meet a nice girl but instead I’m going to fuck seven girls in seven days. I start a new job Monday and it’ll kill my dating life. If I get that much new pussy it’ll last me until the stress passes, I reason. She has dreadlocks. She probably goes to Burning Man. Maybe she’ll let me hit it raw.
It’s OKCupid without the words. On OKCupid you scan through profiles. Murmur ugly, stupid, yes, ugly, fat, yes, stupid, stupid. Tinder is ugly, fat, yes, ugly, fat, yes, ugly. People are so stupid they had to make stupid stop being a dealbreaker.
You both hit yes and it tells you and you ask her out. You have one picture up. 21 words. Girls still match with you. You thought you were a wizard before. That girls read your words and saw something. No, they just like your face. You’re a worthless sack of shit and no one will ever love you. But hey, at least you get laid.
In conclusion: three and a half stars.
A Tinder™ Success Story
That Puerto Rican girl Cynthia. Perfect tits perfect ass near perfect face. I don’t remember if she had a perfect pussy but I remember after I came too fast the first time she got me hard again in five minutes by sucking me off and doing some weird trick with my balls. Kind of reaching through my sack and fiddling with something the way you would reattach a hose on a car engine and I got stiff like a reflex. The first time was for me, telling her to go slow, go slow, then blasting in her in two minutes when she was on top. Second time was for her, doggy style shoving her face in the pillow so she couldn’t breath and then letting her up and yanking a fistful of ponytail back, pulling her ass back into me, choking her, pounding her like a jackrabbit. Not my thing but it got her off. She’d been to Japan, she said. It’s so safe people sleep on the street. All their weird sex stuff is because there’s no connection between people sexually. It’s about the individual’s fantasy. E.g. you wrap me in saran wrap and tickle under my nose with fifteen year old girls sweaty panties while I shit myself. Really interesting stuff, she said. Why didn’t I call her– she was pretty smart too, and had her shit together. It was because she wouldn’t kiss me at first. She’d only kiss when she got really hot. Before that she would just nibble on your lip a little and then pull her head back and laugh. It takes all kinds.
Fetish
When I fuck a girl, to stay hard, I have to think about getting her pregnant, moving to the suburbs, having her quit her job, me making enough money for both of us. Having her love me, having us give up this war of dick pussy money. Just live in a house together. Nice yard with trees. Wake up beside her on a fall morning. Watch her while she sleeps. How her hair lies on the pillow. The smell of her neck.
When I fuck a girl, to stay hard, I have to imagine watching her age, her watching me age, still loving her. Loving the smell of her neck at 50. Taking care of her. One of us does the work, the other pays the bills. One of us cooks, the other does the dishes. Maybe Astral Weeks is playing as I pull the chicken out and then the pan I used to cook the stuffing outside the bird at the end so it gets that crust. Oh honey, this is the best one yet she says when she takes a bite. When I fuck a girl, to stay hard I have to imagine loving her, being loved, and then a little boy or maybe a girl with her hair my eyes having her first day of school and we’re nervous but proud. We can’t believe this is happening. I have to imagine coming home from work and she’s there watching some stupid shit like Pretty Little Liars and she’s embarrassed that she got caught. And I sit down for a second to laugh at the show in a mean way but end up getting engrossed and we spend all night like that on the couch together. I have to think about our kids and taking them back to the lake where I grew up and watching them swim, watching my dad watch my kids before he dies. Showing her things I never showed anybody. Her showing me things she never showed anybody. One of us dies with the other one holding their hand. The other one dies soon after, like Johnny and June Carter Cash. Scatter our ashes by the lake and our kids are sad but they grew up to be good people and their kids are good people too, because of us.
It’s sick, I know. But that’s what I need to stay hard. Right up until the last second, when I pull out and squirt cum on her navel while she laughs. And then I don’t call her, she’s too old. She doesn’t call me, I’m gross and have a small dick. Tomorrow we get back on Tinder. Find another one.
I Just Want to Eat Asian Ass Forever
Mary. Mary from AA.. She is 34 years old, she revealed. 34! She looks 14. Asians.
I need her to move into my apartment. Cocoon herself in a sleeping bag on my couch and not shower for 15 days. I come home and just sniff her armpits and we rut like demons. I need her to stroke my hair and tell me not to worry about my job. Fold herself into me while we fall asleep watching Game of Thrones. We smoke on the porch and then I bend her over the rail and breed her like a prize hog in front of the neighbors. I need her to crawl on my back after leg day. Oil up my ass and walk on my spine. Answer in garbled half-English when I ask if I should take my underwear off….
I’m getting her mixed in with the Thai massage I got yesterday. The masseuse was fat but she walked on my back anyway. Spine popped like a machine gun. She kept pulling down my underwear to get at my ass. I’d said my lower back hurt. And it did, from Romanian deadlifts. But Thai massage places– “lower back” means “stroke my ass.” “Upper thighs” means “please please jerk me off.” My lower back hurt like fuck and I told her so. But what she did was reach into my cat underwear and finger my crack. I got an erection. Asked her if I should take my underwear off. Not so she could jerk me off but because I like those cat underwear. They are my “date” underwear. I don’t want them to get oily.
She didn’t speak good English. It came off like I was asking her to stroke my pecker, which was admittedly hard. Should I, uh, should I take these off, I asked, trying to make it clear that I was not saying please rub this ragingly hard penis. Not that I didn’t want her to but they have a big sign; it says WE GIVE MASSAGE ONLY, NOTHING ELSE. I don’t want to creep her out. I want her to suck my dick but I accept that she won’t. She won’t suck me off but she will carefully cup and tickle my oily ass until my cock is so stiff it’s glowing and then stand on my spine and crush the boner she made into the thin prison mattress. I just need her to flip me over and squat and wrap her hot fat third world twat around my meatpipe. Let me cum in her raw in two pumps and bear my child and never speak to me about it or make me pay for it. Why is that too much to ask.
Anyway, Mary. She is 34 years old. I want her to plant her soft feet on my collarbones and spread her legs and wrap her cuntflaps over my mouth and nose like the alien facehugger. Get all my oxygen and nutrients from her salty pussy juice until I die of old age. Why is that too much to ask. I want my face to be sewn doggystyle into her musky Chinese cameltoe like Human Centipede. Crawl around for the rest of my life sniffing her taint and inhaling her dingleberies. She colored her hair. Put a blonde streak in it. She looks like the bass player off a Jem and the Holograms lunchbox now and that stokes my hard on for her with the nuclear heat of childhood boner nostalgia. I need to make a hundred billion dollars. Declare myself Emperor of the World for the sole purpose of making her my slave and broodmare. Why is that too much to ask. I need to buy her entire family. Hold them hostage so she’s forced to cuddle with me and watch Netflix with my warm winter boner ensconced between her tiny hot hams. I need to quit my job and quit my hobbies and quit breathing and merge with her flesh and die like an anglerfish. Why is that too much to ask.
Asian women. Why are white guys so
into them, people ask. It’s because they are infinitely better. The other chick from that meeting, the Cambodian- she must be close to my age, when a white woman has skin like beef jerky and walks around talking about her job. Not Lilly. She is willowy and her skin is golden and her hair is the tail of a black unicorn. I want to die and come back as her tapeworm. Frolic forever in the H.R. Giger wonderland of her ridgy pink colon.
White women, any flaw becomes a dealbreaker. Asian girls get a pass. Mary’s head is shaped like the Apollo space capsule. Pointy on top and huge at the bottom. Her weird too small teeth like a pulp novel cannibal. She’s a 6 really. But the Asian 6 is the most sought after creature on Earth. I wouldn’t fuck a cankly white girl but I would graft (REDACTED)’s 1950’s elderly nurse cankles to my temples and plow her tangy cunt with the impossibly long untangled straight jet black pubes forever.
My Korean friend Cathy from college. She’s pushing forty but her meaty rippling thoroughbred ass makes me want to murder children. I want to wake up in a Twilight Zone episode where everyone’s face is Cathy’s ass because of some wish I made to an evil genie. Or no– I’ve told the genie: I want to have that ass forever. As you wish, he says. Cut to our wedding day. You may now kiss the bride. I lift the veil. Instead of a face it’s Cathy’s ass. Her crusty roadworn 40 year old asshole puckers for a kiss. In the pews the genie rubs his hands together, cackling. But I shoot him the double guns and smile. Thank you, I tell him. This is exactly what I wanted.
Letter to My 20 Year Old Self
It never ends. Just so you know. You’re almost forty now. Yesterday you nearly cried as you unfriended a college girl on facebook.* She wasn’t returning your texts.** She had a toad face and she was a shitty poet but she was the last girl who will ever like you. You still masturbate ten times a day and then go out and look at girls like they’re the last clean water after the nukes hit. They look at you like you’re an insect. It never ends. Text a girl to confirm a date and only then does she tell you OMG*** I’m stuck at work! Her friend has a concert she forgot about, or some shit, and you still think: I will be stupid and awkward and ugly forever. Or if the planets line up and you get her back to your house, you come too fast. Still.
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