The Pussy

by Delicious Tacos

  You’ll be a hundred twenty years old getting sad from dumb girls on OKCupid.**** You could be Emperor of the planet with a fifteen inch dick and you’d still be ugly in the mirror. You depend on woman for happiness and woman is a treacherous beast. But what else are you going to reach for. Job, money, a nice hairstyle– all bullshit. There’s nothing but girls and girls are cunts from having it too easy, until they get old and turn invisible. It’s still like this 20 years later. On the plus side you’re not bald.

  * an internet rolodex

  ** email you send on your phone

  *** “omigod” abbreviated. People often abbreviate in texts.

  **** personal ads on the internet

  Her

  She had a flappy pussy and her face was like a baby bird. Her teeth. The incisors pinched in. Modern people have too many teeth for the jaw. We’re meant to lose them. Get clocked by some other proto-hominid or drop one gnawing a hyena bone. The teeth get crowded; some of them fold in and go half sideways. With her it was the incisors. She let the cat in the bedroom when we fucked. She wasn’t that funny. She was on hormonal birth control and never felt anything. I love her I miss her. She is a cunt with no soul. Come back to me.

  She was a yuppie whose job was her life; she was hired by an old perv to be a hot woman and her hotness was waning; she had good skin but you found out later it was because she sandblasted it; you caught her talking once with a coven of other girls about Retin-A, abrasives, lotions you have to get from overseas. She would come in in the morning and her face smelled like fruit. She was always putting something on her face, trying to hold it back.

  She had a funny ass and she wore stupid pants and you were so unsure of yourself you could never relax around her. She was a cunt with no soul and come back to me come back to me. Come back to me.

  Now these other girls, fucking them in my apartment and it’s too hot, they all have shaved cunts with three days stubble and weird razor marks. The sounds they make, not like her. Her little moans. Her eyes, concentrating.

  The last time you fucked you saw she trimmed her pussy for him. She was lying the whole time. I should have lied to her. I should have fucked other girls. That would mean I killed it by my own hand, instead of: you are a worthless loser with no direction in life and of course a girl like her wouldn’t love you.

  Come back to me, come back to me… if you did I’d just be scared again. Thinking the whole time how I’m going to lose you. I’d be right.

  Be grateful for what it taught you, you think. You can feel something after all this. But for that to happen now you have to find someone else like her. What was it that made her like that. What was it. I only know when it’s not there.

  OKCupid: What I’m Doing with My Life Part 2

  I was unemployed for a while. Now I’m a gray corporate worm. I have a 401(k). I wear loafers. I use Powerpoint; Excel. Advanced proficiency in Microsoft Office Suite.

  I’m in a small branch office of a large corporation. We share a bathroom. This means that the 4 times a day I piss, which should be a respite– 3 of those 4 times a man from another company will piss next to me. Often it’s a particular bear of a man. Six foot eight, fat, bearded, sweat along his widow’s peak from walking to the restroom. There are 2 urinals. I must stand right by him. The heat from his fat arms noticeable. One side of my face hotter. Unbuckle my reversible genuine leather belt, black on one side brown on the other. Unclasp my pressed business slacks which have a metal tab as well as a button. Withdraw my penis. Which had begun to recoil, already, upon seeing this man from 50 feet down the hall as he keyed in the bathroom door code. By the time I get it out it’s a shrunken acorn head. The other man is slow with his pants. He has only now released his member as he’s heard me keying in the code. His penis too has recoiled.

  Your dick fights you. It gets hard in class but not when a girl you like kisses you. It yearns forcefully to spray hot gouts of piss when you’re in a meeting. But when you’re there at the pisser, and a man is standing next to you who you know will note silence instead of the music of fluid tinkling on porcelain– when your penis can hurt you by making it clear to another man that you’re a little girl chickenshit who can’t piss in public– it will. The petty cruelty of your dick proves God is wicked.

  Eventually I go in the stall. I don’t want people to think I shit at work, but it’s the lesser evil.

  Back to my cubicle. It looks like a cartoon of an office. Like an office from Staples commercials where it’s clear no one involved has had a real job. The walls are beige and the guy next to me has a poster that explains ATTITUDE. Black phone, black computer. With these tools I create Data Driven Solutions for Market Leading Brands. On Halloween, fake police tape proclaims my space a “Zombie Zone.” I am drug tested. I’m too uncool to do drugs so I pass. A portion of my check is withheld into a retirement account. This helps avoid taxes. By consenting to this I am consenting to a slow subtle scam to eliminate social programs. Turn the country into Ayn Rand anarcho-capitalism. When enough people have 401(k)’s they’ll take back old people’s government money because if I don’t need it fuck you. I am contributing to evil. But I want to avoid taxes.

  These activities, and my commute, take up 12 of my 16 waking hours.

  I don’t have a dating friendly lifestyle, is what I’m saying. No one who works does. First dates are OK. Maybe a new person will fuck you. A relationship is OK. Come over at 9:30, eat, watch a movie, fuck, pass out. Wake up at 6:45. I want those things. But to get from one to the other there’s the crucial burden of getting to know you. I have no energy for this. You don’t either. We’ll meet. I’ll pour cheap wine down your gullet and you’ll fuck me or you won’t. Next day, the better looking one won’t return the other’s text. We’re doomed to do this dance until we get so old we’re too ugly. At which point– what? What happens? I don’t know, but I bet it’s terrifying. In my leisure time I enjoy hiking.

  Worst Case Scenario

  Let’s assume I never get laid again as long as I live. What happens. I have no children. Fine. I die alone. Fine. Age slowly, rot; disease, brain turned to mush. I forget who or what I am. Trapped in a state nursing home. Surly orderlies snap my arthritic fingers to get my rings. Shitting myself, fed from a tube jammed in my throat, no one to hold my hand as the pain takes forever to kill me. Each instant containing lifetimes. OK– this exercise was supposed to end in “that doesn’t sound so bad.” Fuck.

  Try to hang myself but my bony arthritic hands can’t tie a knot. Wallowing in weeping sores in a hospital bed; I roll out and try to aim my head at the floor but it only breaks my face, my pelvis, thick needles ripping out of my arms…. you lose your ability to move but not your ability to feel… Jesus Christ. A friend from the past shows up; I mutely plead to be smothered with a pillow. He just kicks me in the nuts.

  Only way to avoid this is to have kids. Only way to make kids is to get some ass. Right back where we started.

  Last night I met a girl at a party. Got her phone number. This is a big step. I’m shy since I quit drinking. My sponsor tells me: Tinder girls are maladjusted cretins. That I’ll meet my future wife in the real world. He’s right about the first part, so I’m trusting him. I met a girl in life. I texted and asked her on a date. She has not responded. If she wanted the dick I’d have heard back by now. Sorry, not the dick– if she wanted to settle down in a nice suburban home. I’ll die alone.

  Fuck these girls anyway. I know what I want. I just keep not finding it. A girl who’s all right looking and kind of cool. That’s it. All right looking means under a certain age and not chromosome damaged. Or any Asian. Kind of cool means she likes good books, she’s a poet, something. They’re not out there. Every woman I meet knows nothing and cares about nothing.

  But I’m thinking the wrong way. Focus on what you can give to someone, my sponsor tells me. Well: I hate myself. I hate my face. Giant nose cracked in half, huge uneven nostrils flapping open; impossibly long white nose hairs. You trim but always m
iss a couple. They snake out when you’re going in for a kiss like blind sea worms grasping for her eyes. I hate my body. Starvation level body fat but still, folds when I bend over. I work out like a convict but only look good lit from the side, flexing so hard I grind my molars out of whack. I have no job no money no possessions and my house is full of cat hair and centipedes. I’ll never have the kind of life your modern woman requires. My beard is patchy. I have too many moles.

  I hate myself and how could anyone ever love me. If I could write something good I’d love myself. But you get a good story about three times a year. It comes in the shower on a day you have time. Couple hours to crank out, couple more to edit and there you have it. But you aren’t responsible. It’s from some antenna you put out and it happens to pick up a signal. Ideas sit for years before the way to crack them hits you. You can’t force it. All you can do is try not to fuck it up. Stay out of its way. Don’t slack off and erase your mind reading about rape on Twitter.

  What are you gonna do. Fucking relax. It’s a beautiful day and you’re at the duck pond. You’ve seen a ring-necked duck and 2 kinds of egret. Cormorants, male and female; one of them carried nesting material. Rough day overall but on the waterfowl front it’s a winner. So there’s that.

  Responsible Citizen

  Look at you, they tell me. Look at you getting your shit together. Doesn’t it feel good.

  Doesn’t it feel good to pay your bills. Finally open the overstuffed mailbox that has stood so long for your irresponsibility. Take out 11 pounds of flyers for the Mexican meat market. CMYK newsprint pictures of a flayed sheep’s head. 69 cents a pound. Fair price but the place smells like a mass grave; there are flies. Leaf through each page of sheep’s heads and weird spiky fruits and economy pack off brand diapers in case a warrant for your death got trapped in there, a letter from your dying father, your car registration, the bill for the overdue registration from your old car with a threatening letter saying the state will garnish your wages. Thing’s been in a junkyard for 3 years. Doesn’t it feel good to do that. To clip your toenails regularly. Wash your dishes clean the fish tank have a stilted 15 minute call with your mother, your father, your uncle. How’s the job going, they ask. How’s the job, the bills, the money, the job the job the job. Doesn’t it feel good to show up to work, to be of service. To make financial amends with your credit card company. With the hospital that charged 28 grand to lance a boil. To track down your creditors, call them, to sit on hold with the DMV, with traffic court. Call between the hours of 8:30 and 11:30 Monday through Wednesday. If you call at 8:29 please call back during telephone hours. If you call at 8:30:005 I’m sorry there are too many people in the queue please try back at a later time. If you manage to dial the last digit at 8:29:57 and have the phone company route your call in exactly three seconds, not 3.001, not 2.999– it took eight days of trying for that to happen. Just to get in the hold queue. Just to be on hold for 41 minutes and then get told they can’t handle this kind of issue on the phone sir, sir, at this time, sir, I do apologize at this moment I am unable to help with your query, sir, I do apologize the system won’t allow it, you need to mail the proof of ownership to blah blah blah. You don’t have the proof of ownership. You will just have to pay to register this old car forever. Fine. Doesn’t it feel good to have shit handled– no. If I’ve paid a bill I have the shit handled once. Before I didn’t have it handled at all. In both cases I still have to handle it constantly, forever, until I die. Nothing has changed.

  Doesn’t it feel good to seek healthy human connections. You used to use people compulsively. Got 23 year old girls on OKCupid, they liked you and you fucked them and you never called them again. Now, now you can meet quality women in real life. Girls on the street look at you like you’re a worm.

  Doesn’t it feel good to drop off your dry cleaning and eat your vegetables and jerk off to porn that isn’t underage Russian Stickam videos and watch Louis CK or some shit and pass out on the couch. Wake up at six god damn motherfucking thirty in the morning and get in the car, doesn’t it feel good that you had the brakes done, that you made the blinkers work, you had the tires aligned so it didn’t pull slightly to the left anymore; doesn’t all that feel good.? No. It doesn’t even make you not feel bad. The anxiety you used to feel just gets replaced with other shit. You used to worry about last month’s bills, now you worry about next month’s bills. There is no accomplishment. Just a constant firehose of tiny pains in the ass forever. It will never stop. It will only get worse as your body and mind fall apart and you stay alone.

  Doesn’t it feel good to have a paycheck and medical and dental and a 401(k). No. No it does not. Take all this shit and shove it right up your ass. I’m fucking sick of being a good person. A good brother, son, friend, worker, being of service, not drinking, being an instrument of my higher power’s will. I want to blow a rail and pound a World’s Greatest Secretary mug full of cheap brandy and rawdog an underage Mexican god dammit. Fuck God and fuck the Earth and fuck my fellow human beings. I want to give some Tinder slut herpes; I want to kick a retarded baby and dump an old man out of a wheelchair into traffic. Anyway good morning.

  Let’s Go Out for Coffee, She Says

  Well no. There are day date guys who take girls to coffee and museums. Then there are night date guys girls drink with later. On your night date the How’s OKCupid for You talk happens. I actually went on another date today, she tells you. He was nice. He’s an architect. That text was from him, it says it was nice seeing you today, thanks for coming, I hope I can get to know you better. A nice guy but I just don’t think it’s going to work out. Later she’s at your place trying to pet your cat who wants to be left alone. She’s drunk and can’t read his signals. I’m not usually like this, she tells you. Don’t cum in me.

  The Messiah

  We were at dinner. And how’s your dating life, she asked. Well if I like them they don’t like me. If they like me I don’t like them. If they’re pretty they won’t fuck me. If they’re ugly they will. I spend my hours trying to find the prettiest woman who’s just ugly enough to fuck me. I can tell my worth from where the needle lands. But let’s be honest: I’ll fuck anything that moves; I’m an animal; I’ll jerk it to porn where the women look like something they pulled out of the Mariana Trench so why not fuck them in real life. Four months since you left me. I’ve been trying to replace you the whole time. One girl came close; she was 22. Her face wasn’t like yours but she had big tits. She left me too. I was hurting from you and I tried to fix it and now I’m hurting from both of you and the evidence keeps piling up that I’m unlovable. Why won’t you love me. What is wrong with me. I mean, my face, but you always said I was hot– Asian women can’t tell when white men are ugly. And vice versa. One of the few blessings God gave us, in dating. Otherwise, whether we’re loved is dictated by the shape of our skull.

  You were with me for my body. She was too. She liked to get fucked bent over my bed because my closet doors are mirrors. I want to look at you, she said. You’re all hot. I looked at myself too. My ass pumping ridiculously, muscles upon muscles. It’s a fine body but it feels like a costume, or a parade float that I drive. It’s not me.

  God I miss you so bad.

  I’m trying to get over it. My weapon is prayer. Accept that everything is as it should be. Part of God’s plan. The closest I get is: I accept that I’ll die alone. With effort I get to where a couple holding hands on the street doesn’t make me want to hang myself. Try to give to the world rather than take. Be a source of peace to others. Don’t chase pussy, because pussy just makes you need more pussy. You accomplish nothing. Still, I’m gonna go to Thailand. They have temples and birds but I’m there to jerk off using other human beings. They are slaves who will pretend to like me due to poverty. I can’t wait.

  You get closer but God Himself won’t stop you being horny. Being lonely. I’m a complex chemical accident honed by pure chance over a billion years and I exist solely to spray the goo from my ball sac into teenag
ers. That is God’s plan. I suffer for not adhering to it. And yet I suffer too when I comply. Women are awful. If you try you’re doomed. If you don’t try, there are no women to observe you not trying. I don’t hate women but I don’t blame men who do. When will it end. When I find a girl I love who loves me. For a minute I thought that was gonna be you.

  Anyway, I’d rather not discuss it, I said. And I’m glad to be friends with you. But now I’m supposed to ask you the same question and the one thing I can’t ever hear is you talking about another man. So let’s move on to other topics. This curry, for instance. Spicy.

  In the morning I went to shit out the curry. On the toilet tank was a Kafka book I found on the sidewalk. It said: the Messiah will come only when he is no longer necessary.

  Maria

  She had big tits and she was studying to be a mortician. Her OKCupid was all about death. Guatemalan I think. She wouldn’t fuck on the first date. I fingerfucked her in her car instead. A black Camry or something with a tan or gray interior. Pink panties.

  I fucked her on the second date and then a couple more times until we drifted apart. Last I heard from her she was getting married to another tall skinny white man with a large broken nose. He’s into guns.

  I still jerk off to her occasionally. The fantasy is that I run into her at the Cha Cha Lounge. Fuck her on top of the dumpster in back. Either she’s sitting on it facing me with legs spread open or she’s bent over it. More the former probably, because of the tits. She wants to get pregnant but it isn’t happening with the husband or she doesn’t want it to, and she tells me to cum in her, to give her a baby because I look like him and he won’t notice.