The Pussy

by Delicious Tacos

  This is from 3 dates 4 years ago. You fuck 200 girls but get all your jerk mileage from the same five women. Why is she the one that sticks. Why are the others written in water. Which one am I to them.

  Coffee Shop Diary: An Armpit

  Look– an attractive woman. Jogging outfit. Maybe 22. Even her dewy little armpit is alluring, popping out of a loose tank top. Contrast this with the waitress’ armpit, which has stretch marks. Jogger woman’s armpit is stunning in comparison. I want to tongue the lilac scented Secret® out of it while plowing raw into her hot yeasty jogger’s cunt and prematurely ejaculating. She sees me looking. I feel bad. My look can only mean one thing. She sees a thought bubble drawn over my head with a cartoon drawing of her own sweaty twat; my spent seed burbling out. There is only one thing a man looking at a woman ever means. And women never look at you except to catch you looking.

  Normal Human Interaction

  Some kind of mulatto chick sits near me with big Malcolm Gladwell hair. Pretty. She is reading poetry. So I should talk to her. Hi, what are you reading, I would say.

  It’s a poem about how I want to suck your dick in front of these pleasant middle class families on their picnics, about your hot salty jizz rolling in thick spurts across my tongue, she would say. But leave something in your sack to squirt deep into my ovulating young cunt when you bend me over against the Virgin Mary Statue. It’s by Emily Dickinson. She’s wearing black yoga pants and laying back knocking her knees together. Rubbing one thigh against the other. As though anticipating my meatpipe.

  And shit: she said hi to me. She wants me to fill her with children. I better say something. This is a message from God. Tinder is down, at the exact moment when a pretty girl said hi to me. But her back is to me now. And what the fuck would I say anyway. That’s some nice lasagna you have there in that tupperware. I see you like books.

  Now I can’t even maintain eye contact. I’m an unmanly pussy. My face is getting flushed. I’m fucking terrified. A pretty girl showing interest is the worst thing that’s happened in my life.

  OK: you must ask her out. Do it as you’re leaving. Be a normal person. Say normal shit. What is your name. Do you want to get a drink with me. I’ll get shot down in front of this smiling yuppie couple. Their detergent commercial looking kids and their fucking Welsh corgi will witness my ignominy. My voice will crack and my penis will fall off. I will shit myself. The shit will be made of acid and squirt in the kids’ faces. The ducks will storm me and chew off my nuts with their awful dinosaur beaks. I will be mocked and humiliated and my children and my children’s children. Anyway, here goes.

  Slayer

  I went to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Because I was gonna have a mentally ill woman fly over the Pacific to move into my apartment. I’ve never met her. Our interactions are emails and skypes. I want you to fill my hot holes with your cum, she says. I want you to get me pregnant and call me daddy’s little cum slut. I think I’m going to take pills and kill myself. But she is 22 and Chinese and pretty. All that matters.

  Also because I fucked that girl Sunday. OKCupid. It was the morning after my AA fifth step. You take your diary of the evils you’ve done out of hatred and lust and fear and read it to someone. I was with my sponsor inside a 3,000 year old hollowed out sequoia tree. The next day I woke up and meditated for an hour, per Bill W. in the Big Book. Crows cawed behind me and I understood their language. Creatures putting their song into the world. I thought on all my evils. What I’ve done and could still do. I understood that God was real and I was forgiven. I understood that I’d forget this truth but it would still be real. I was laughing and crying. I felt like I’d taken 12 hits of acid. One of the most significant experiences of my life.

  Because of my spiritual awakening I moved the date from drinks to daytime. It is bad to use other human beings as fleshlights. We’d feed ducks at the pond. I’d go in with an open heart and get to know her.

  The ducks got boring so we ate chicken tenders at Brite Spot and then I took her home and fucked her. I hit it raw and came in her in 3 pumps. Decent sized tits but they were spongey and her taint and inner thighs were woolly like an Armenian. She liked me. We will never speak again.

  I am a machine and I can’t stop fucking people. On dates I feel like I’m watching a movie of myself. The whole thing is on rails and if I try to break free I can’t. The duck pond was supposed to be a pleasant G rated affair but now that it happened once, the duck pond is a fuck spot. It doesn’t matter. It could be a church. If I’m with you we are going to fuck. If you fuck enough women women can’t not fuck you. They’re just animals. If you smell like pussy they have to give you more pussy, the way banks give rich people money. As a man, you have no mechanism for not fucking. Not fucking is a woman’s job. The day after, I’m back to hideous thirst and the hole that will never be filled.

  I was early for the meeting. Just me and one other guy and he kept eyefucking me. Gays. This is a valuable lesson, I told myself. This is how AA girls feel when I drill my laser eyes into them every meeting. Every woman I see anywhere I leer into her pupils and imagine that I’m pushing down on her collarbones and squirting a crawly unprotected load into her. Making that stupid hot sauce shit face I make when I cum. Hold the stare until she looks away. Colleagues, junior high school girls, the girl selling me cigarettes at the 7-11. The girl on the bus that I’m riding right now, who held my eyes for a heartbeat then scampered to the back like she was in sniper alley.

  The meeting started. People talked. They bored the shit out of me and I left to go pull girls off Tinder.

  Coffee Shop Diary: First World Problems

  All right. New coffee shop. This place and Dinette and Ostrich Farm are all– they’re all the stereotype. 43 year old white people in tangentially creative fields with robust salaries. Drivers of unusual Mini Coopers with ski racks. Girls with weird old money inbred jawlines and purple hair discussing a Tumblr about Women in Tech. People using the word curate. Curate is the new monetize. Get paid for something worthless. I hate white people.

  The feng shui is off here. Every seat exposed so everyone in the room can read your laptop. It’s hard to look at girls’ tits. So it was designed by an idiot. Then again, I’m not what they want here. Weird aging lecher who spends little and leers at girls and frighten them. Maybe it’s made so I wouldn’t like it.

  Where the fuck is my hot chocolate, you cystic acne faced cunt. Well, who cares. I’m just renting the seat. And actually the counter girl is kind of hot. It’s just that her face is shiny. I wonder how much money, effort and angst goes into keeping her face merely slightly bumpy and oily instead of a Vladimir Harkonnen wasteland of infected roast beef purple pustules. She is trim. She has an alluringly tiny ass. The kind you can cup in one hand. I want to watch it winking in my mirror as she rides me. Try to see the good in people.

  I wonder if they forgot my drink. I hope so. It’d be an excuse for self pity and another example of how I’m invisible. My life is Milton from Office Space. Muttering about how I was shunted into the roach basement. The other barista is back now, the guy who looks like the 20th hijacker, after a 15 minute absence. He was clearly taking a shit. Good for him.

  Little mousy haired girl ordering. Baggy white pants. I cannot tolerate a woman who does not wear form fitting clothing on her lower body. In the age of yoga pants I must know every contour of your crack and cameltoe.

  Still no cocoa. At what point do I ask. Unending stream of customers. Getting her attention is like making a tough left turn. I don’t want to loudly interject in front of them and look like an asshole. I should just meekly accept it. I should be a martyr for this cocoa. I don’t care about it; I don’t actually want it. I’m paying for it because I want to type in a place where there are girls. I’m afraid of losing ab definition and drinking a 400 calorie hot beverage at 11am will make me into a fat disgusting sack of shit. Let it go.

  It is better for me, for the staff, for everything if I don’t ask about the cocoa. But I spe
nt money, so I must have it. One of the purple hair girls takes out her phone and it’s Twitter. Hers looks like mine. Stock ticker of fraternity rapes and racial incidents and women in tech outrages. The Kardashians for college types. Though I’m next to the register the clerk still doesn’t look at me. Unfortunately I continue to exist.

  Later a macchiato comes up. She looks at me and says hesitantly: I think this might be… yours? I’m forced to say no, I was waiting on a cocoa. Oh yeah that’s right. Her apathy, something I can only dream of. I need to work in a coffee shop.

  The cocoa’s OK. On the way I out I walk behind the counter. Throw my gum in the private employee garbage. She looks at me askance. Take that, fiend.

  I Can’t Tonight But How about Tuesday, She Says

  Well no. I’m talking to you because you seem like you fuck fast. I fucked my ex. She only hurts me. I thought it would make it better to have another girl taste her cunt juice on me. The air next to me feels howlingly empty without her body in it. So I do not want to go out with you Tuesday. There is no Tuesday. There is no tomorrow. No later. There is now. You can fuck me now or never see me, and if I were you, 38 years old, I would take what you can get.

  Let me know your number if you’re down.

  How I Met Your Mother

  We met on a web site. Computers still showed two dimensional images then. People would post their pictures and a few paragraphs about themselves, trying to get a date. A woman chose pictures where she looked thinnest and her face looked most like a child. A man said he was taller than he was and chose pictures where his jawbone stuck out. Men sent messages to women. Hoped the women would pick them. Women waited to be picked.

  People had to pretend it was about getting married. Really it was about fucking. Men wanted to fuck much more than women back then. No way you could imagine it now. It was like a hunger where you’d kill a man over a Dorito. It was like being on fire and fucking was the only way to put it out. Women didn’t quite feel that way. They felt something complicated and weird until they met a tall man with the right size jawbone. Then suddenly their feelings were comparable. It was all a nightmare frankly. No one ever got anything done. No wonder the ugly people took over and had us all castrated.

  First Date

  They were at El Prado. He had mineral water. She had dry Riesling. So I have to ask you something, she said.

  He knew what was coming but pretended not to. Go ahead.

  Are you really as much of an asshole as you say on your blog?

  It’s factually true. Things I say happened, happened. But I leave out the parts where I’m a functioning human being most days. It’s boring to say I woke up and took a healthy shit and earned money and paid taxes. Emotional reactions are heightened. Particularly with regard to sex. For instance, I don’t literally want my mouth and nose to be skin grafted onto a 40 year old alcoholic Cambodian woman’s asshole.

  My friends told me not to go out with you.

  Yes, I know, he thought. That’s part of it. Your friends will tell you not to go out with me which means you have to. Your friends will tell you not to fuck me which means you have to. Don’t think about elephants. Your friends will tell you I’m a pig but it won’t stick until I start liking you and that’s when you leave. And yet here you are, he said.

  You know girls are scared of you and you love it, she said.

  It’s true, he said. And it was. Or it had been for a while. Now, it wouldn’t hurt to hear something new. But this wasn’t going to be the night. Anyway, I walked here– did you drive?

  Uh huh.

  Where did you park?

  Why are you asking me that.

  Why don’t you give me a ride back to my place and we can take a walk in the park.

  Oh, and we’re going to listen to the owls and you can try to fuck me?

  Correct.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Let me close out my tab.

  I can’t believe you’re doing the exact same thing with me that you wrote about 5,000 times and I’m fucking agreeing to it.

  How do you think I feel.

  Each time they had different drinks and stayed different lengths at the bar. But the tab was always 36 dollars. He still had to think to figure out 20%. The bartender tonight was the one from Bryn Mawr. A floutist. He’d talked to her about BWV 1013. J.S. Bach’s only solo flute composition.

  She didn’t recognize him. He needed to spell his name to get the credit card back. When she took the receipt she said thanks with a hint of fuck you on her breath. He could never figure out his transgression.

  On the walk to the car he held out his arm. She put her hand in the crook of his elbow. How gentlemanly, she said.

  Notice that my bicep is like a cobblestone.

  He pulled her in for a kiss on the corner. She didn’t smoke. He used to worry about his tongue tasting like cigarettes but it turned out the effect was overstated. Her car would be nice but ten years old and she would apologize for it. It would be clean but there would be one paper bag and maybe a notebook in the passenger footwell. She’d apologize for the mess. She would plug in her phone with the aux cable and play recent hip hop or R & B. She would apologize for it. This is me, she said. 2004 ML350, black.

  I like this car.

  It’s old, she said. I’m going to get a new one soon. Sorry it’s a mess.

  My car is 13 years older than you. And my toilet is full of silverfish.

  She turned the ignition and plugged the phone into the radio. Iggy Azalea’s Fancy played. Oh God, she said– this is a guilty pleasure. I know you like, uh… what’s that thing you always play.

  Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun by Debussy.

  Right.

  Don’t feel bad. I spent all day reading rape arguments on Twitter.

  It’s funny that you listen to classical stuff instead of… like, a lot of guys like you play Frank Sinatra.

  When Sinatra got a girl home he’d play Ravel.

  and swear I meant that there so much that they give that line a rewind, said the radio. What did it mean.

  **********

  I’m gonna cum too fast the first time. But give me about 15 minutes and I’ll get hard again, he said. I’m sorry but you’re just too hot. She asked about a condom. I don’t have any diseases, he said. Have you been tested? Not since the Philippines. I can’t not tell you that I had unprotected sex with prostitutes over there. But it’s mechanically impossible for a straight man to get an STD.

  I hope they were 18 at least.

  I have no idea.

  He did cum too fast. They kissed for a minute and then turned their attention back to the movie. The Baader Meinhof Complex. Young German terrorists suffer from brutality, paranoia and infighting as they campaign violently to end American imperialism over 10 years. The women were painfully hot. The message, therefore, was: become a terrorist. I need to wash your sperm out of me, she said.

  When she went in the bathroom she was white. When she came out she was Asian. His hair was longer and he had the beginnings of a beard. The TV was playing Z by Costa-Gavras. He was surprised at how beautiful she looked naked. Let’s go in the bedroom, he said.

  He did last longer the second time. He came on her ass crack and then kissed the back of her neck. Put his face in her hair.

  I’m glad I met you, he said.

  Yeah, I like you for some reason.

  I like you too, he said.

  I wonder what it is. You’re a scumbag but you surprised me with the Debussy.

  You didn’t remember that? I talk about it on OKCupid.

  We didn’t meet on OKCupid. It was Tinder, she said.

  Are you sure?

  I don’t have OKCupid. I don’t think anyone does anymore.

  Will you go out with me again?

  I don’t know, honestly. You’re hot but I kind of need a guy with a job.

  Why don’t you just stay with me until you find him.

  We’ll see, she said, and dug her face betwee
n his arm and chest. Let out a warm breath on his skin. They fell asleep with a big wind shaking the palms and the coyotes crying in the hills. He thought: please let her stay.

  **********

  When they woke up she was Mexican. Her eyebrows were weird but her ass was like a poster. His hair was short again. Hers was curly. I have to get home to my son, she said. But thank you. I had a nice time with you.

  Yeah, me too, he said. Let’s uh…

  You’re going to invite me over for chicken.

  Correct. How about it.

  OK, she said. Text me. She kissed his forehead almost like a mother. Started looking for her bra. The blinds were open. Outside a mockingbird sat on a wire with a blade of dead grass in its beak. It must be spring.

  Philippines Vacation

  The day after I got home I was sitting in traffic on the 10 West. Job interview. Temp secretary at an organic dog food company. Possible permanent hire if the woman doesn’t come back from maternity leave. Who knows what a young mother will do, said the office manager. Eight minute interview. I knew I didn’t get it when I walked in. From his eyebrows. Drive time: 2 hours round trip. Where do you make the dog food, I asked. I don’t know, he said. The Midwest somewhere.

  24 hours earlier I was suspended in the Tanon Strait next to a sea turtle. Warm sighing ocean over coral reefs. You could spend a year looking at one pufferfish. There are a million pufferfish. A million wrasse and clownfish and nudibranchs. Watch out for deadly sea snakes. Back on shore the greatest danger is too many 19 year olds want you to impregnate them.