The Pussy

by Delicious Tacos

  So who fucking cares that I didn’t get the dog food gig. Except: I need a job now. I need money so I can light my possessions on fire. Go live under a tarp in Negros Oriental. The jungle is warm. The girls all want a long nosed white baby.

  I’m sick and it’s not going away. Maybe it’s AIDS, people keep joking. Well maybe it is. If you think I didn’t hit it raw with hookers in the Philippines, you don’t know me. Old expats warn you. Stay away from street girls. They don’t get tested. You don’t know how old they are. You’re caught in a room with an underage girl, you’re going to third world jail, long time. If you think you’re gonna hear that and then not cut to me washing my dick in a rusty garden bucket in a 200 peso per hour motel, jumping up backwards yanking on my pants when a cop blasts his siren to pass someone outside– you don’t know me. I asked if she had a condom. Is OK, she said. I no have a sick. Bad idea but I was malibog.

  Angeles. Hookers don’t make you use condoms. They don’t use birth control. They don’t get abortions. They don’t tell you pull out. Single moms mostly. Father’s a local. When he heard about the blessed event he disappeared. Baby’s at home with mom or somebody. Home could be Angeles or it could be fucking Gilligan’s Island. The other johns are old Australians. They wear soccer jerseys and their eyes point in different directions. 2000 pesos gets a girl all night. Six minutes of fucking, nine hours of her murmuring at facebook. Their social media lives are like American strippers. Rage posts at the girl who stole her boyfriend. He’s an aspiring rapper. Gaga, gago she types.

  The father’s a local, or he’s a client. Waitress at one of the girly bars was eight months pregnant. Serving swill in a club where every single person smokes 63 peso counterfeit Marlboro reds constantly. Dad was Korean. She’d liked him. He paid $900 for her cherry. They call Koreans 3 3 3’s. 3000 pesos, 3 minutes, 3 inch dick. Metric system for everything but cock size. When he heard about the blessed event he disappeared. Good luck tracking down Mr. Kim. Still, I ask: did you try google. She asks: what is google.

  The girl I still jerk off to was deaf. Little beach town. 1800 pesos to bring her to my hotel and cum on her belly after 3 strokes. She couldn’t speak. She could only look in my eyes and smile and squeal like a baby. This made me think she really liked me. Fat belly with a bird tattoo. A kid somewhere. When dad heard about the blessed event he disappeared. After I came too fast we laid around making out. Watched a cartoon called The Amazing World of Gumball. It’s about a cat who goes to school with a retarded Tyrannosaur, a ghost made of paper, and a masked creature with antlers. The cat has a crush on the antler creature. The school was having a dance. Cat couldn’t bring himself to ask antlers to it. I could relate.

  I can’t believe I didn’t cum in her. She’d be getting the news now. I’d have disappeared. My son grows up in the jungle. Rooster for a pet. His mother can’t speak but her sister’s English is pretty good. I know because she sold me the deaf girl. He has you until 11:36. She had to make her fingers go 1, 1, 3, 6.

  Angeles. Sex tourists. Old white men, there on pensions, there on social security. Young fat men in that Tabasco Sauce branded Hawaiian shirt. Spiky haired men with lizard faces strolling out of an alley with two knobby kneed twelve year olds in tow. They’ve got friends, he volunteers.

  Men in clothes so bad that jokes haven’t made it there yet. It’s not Tapout, Ed Hardy. Not fedoras. None of the shit where OKCupid girls say don’t message me if you wear this. Socks with sandals gets close. Crocs. A specific IT worker from Minnesota aesthetic. The Tabasco Sauce branded Hawaiian shirt is the flagship garment of this school. Sports jerseys. Men dressed like Kevin Smith.

  And who am I to trash them. I’m there buying pussy like everyone else. Five minutes out of my airport cab in Manila I picked up a street hooker at Kenny Rogers Roasters. First girl I saw whose face was female. Ladyboys are everywhere. Gay culture and trans culture don’t appear to be separate. If you are gay, you dress up like a woman and fuck for money. I asked if she had a condom and she made a confused face. She had a kid. Dad disappeared.

  When are you gonna write about this. When I can wrap my mind around it. I swam with the sea turtles. Facefucked a street hooker of indeterminate age who crossed herself and prayed before she put it in her mouth and squealed when I came without warning. I sucked another hooker’s tit while rawdogging her and got a mouthful of milk. I saw tall trees looming out of the rain forest mist above a 200 foot waterfall. Talked to the most open hearted people on Earth. Made friends with smart college kids who wanted to take pictures of me and practice English. I want to help them. Go back and start a business. So does everyone else.

  Crushed an 18 year old’s pussy while she screamed in agony and her screams made me cum too fast. Then I did it again. She cost 20 dollars. Per facebook she found a sucker now. Fat man from Finland. I’m proud of her. Watched a cockfight. The poor bird ripped savagely, dying; the ref kept picking him up and dropping him down waiting for him to stand. He just bled out. They left him there a long time while money changed hands. Spoke to God in the jungle. Climbed a streambed miles from nowhere in flood waters, almost died. Almost died many times. Learned how to ride a motorcycle. Almost took it off a cliff, almost took into a truck filled with screaming pigs, into another bike with 3 generations of a farm family on it, old people on the back and babies on the handlebars. Swam out into Subic Bay 200 yards, put my hand on something sharp on a piling and it broke off in the flesh of my palm. I remembered the aquarium display: death from a lionfish sting is slow and agonizing. It was a sea urchin. Later I saw them in the reefs; they’re covered in spikes but they still hide. A good metaphor for something but I don’t know what it is. Talked to sex tourists, sex workers, sex trafficked children, trying to figure out what made the whole thing tick. How can I get those kids the fuck out of there, how can I make money so I can build them a home or something… five years later I’ll come back and fuck them raw. 20 dollars. Manila to Angeles to Olungapo to Cebu to Dumaguete in two weeks. Half the trip was transit, buses through the jungle. They play VHS tapes of Manny Pacquiao fights. Cab drivers ask if you like Manny Pacquiao. Say yes.

  I was an openhearted ambassador for my country. I was a degenerate scumbag exploiting poor young girls. For five minutes I was a ”journalist” when I found two 12 year olds kept in a scummy apartment complex with a cat drowned in the pool. Doubtless hired out by an old Australian with eyes pointing different directions. Tried to talk to them about how’d it come to this but they didn’t tell me shit, just gamed me. They kept trying to sell me pussy and I was to afraid to be in a room with them while they did each other’s hair and watched porn. Well who needs an expose of the child sex trade. Everyone already knows. Cinder block sheds half built with tarp roofs, open sewers, weird karaoke huts deep in the jungle made of bamboo. Monkeys. Jungle birds screaming. Everywhere I went the kids wanted me to play basketball.

  I need to go back. Warm rain hissing in the coconut palms. The girls. Start a business. I’ll be king of these monkey faced primitives. With the wheel and the sharpened stick I’ll be their god. Impregnate their teens. When the men get surly I’ll point at an eclipse. Tell them I’m eating the sun.

  Need to go back. Make babies. The women don’t think giving birth is a fate worse than death. I’ll be a gross old rapist in crocs and so what. Now I need money. Time to make dog food.

  On the Road to My Solitary Death

  An unattractive woman I don’t like doesn’t want to see me again. I’m pissed. Because she has a perfect pussy.

  All I need is one asset. Good face, nice body, nice pussy, nice intellect. Sense of humor, sense of adventure, an interest in Lake Tanganyika cichlids– PICK ONE. Well forget what you can take, my sponsor tells me. Focus on what you give. I got: OK face nice body nice intellect. Sense of humor sense of adventure interest in Lake Tanganyika cichlids. Well read. Minor internet fame, albeit among woman haters. I can play guitar. I can draw. My pecs have a zipper down the middle. My inguinal crease is so cut that when I t
ake a shit a vein pops above my pubis. I can cook. I have a nice place next to a park. Down the street is another park with waterfowl and I can identify them. I know something of their lifestyles. Perhaps this will be of interest. My hair has perfect gray. I’m not short. Not bald. I don’t have big cock but it’s not… the situation isn’t quite clinical. I’m a good guy. Good to be around. People who know me love me. Still. This fat cunt with the one long nipple hair can’t sent me a god damn text back. And I’m too old to shoot up a school so I just have to take it.

  Adulthood

  Young girls only fuck at night, and I go to bed early. Before sleep I review my household budget. Murmur approvingly if I’ve saved on groceries. Electric usage dropped. Light touch with the AC. No cable bill but the internet I was paying 30 dollars for became 60 somehow, because I stayed with Time Warner Cable. Phone bill stayed 100 but only by fights and fights with Verizon. Bank fees successfully disputed but I could write an orchestral score of Bank of America hold music from memory.

  My H & M slim cut wrinkle free dress shirts hang on the shower curtain rod instead of going in the dryer. I’ll get a year out of them this way. Then they’ll get a stiff yellow crust on the armpits. Some chemical my body makes to ruin shirts. Soon enough a year will pass. Buy more shirts. Old ones go in my car to wipe the dipstick. Soon I’ll have paid off debt. Saved money. A travel fund. A fund for my children’s education. But no vacation, no children. I’ll just watch the number grow and it will please me. I could take care to withdraw cash in front of a girl. Not palm the receipt with the balance. Leave it visible. But there will be no girl. I sleep at 9. Young girls only exist at night.

  I’ll marry an old woman. As the drought worsens she’ll grow a hummingbird’s beak from her mouth. Suck the juice from my glands while I sleep. My bones will leak out and become stains on my shirts. I’ll be a pile of queasy shapeless meat and the squirrels will chew out my eyes. Who will take my compound interest.

  My parents are coming. They live here now. I have a good relationship with them. This means my sex life is over. The life of money and bills and responsibility has begun. Prompt medical checkups and colonoscopies and the dentist. Classes and homework and extracurriculars and then update mom and dad over dinner. In the queue to die.

  I threw out a box of old papers in honor of their arrival. Each week I clean one thing. My apartment becomes livable. Girls would complain about the dust, the toilet. But they stayed.

  I stopped drinking. Made a list of my character defects. Prayed for their removal. A list of those I harmed. Prayed for the willingness to make amends. The prayers will be answered. What will be left.

  Ideal Behavior

  As a personal growth exercise, please answer the following question:

  How would you describe your ideal behavior with regard to dating and sex?

  I want to be a human hose. Permanently coupled to a never ending mountain of ovulating 13 year old Asian schoolgirls. Perpetually blasting hot yogurty goo into impossibly tight wet adolescent cunts. On the other end, my face, a team of servants stuffs nutrients necessary to continue pumping forth oceans of crawly ejaculate. Healthy foods such as blueberries and yams. Brussels sprouts. Doesn’t have to be organic shit. I’m not fancy.

  I want to be an HR Giger flesh abomination rocketing my jizz like alien spores over a canyon of dewy musky unwashed half bald teen pussies forever. Preferably they are Korean. I want to be some kind of pulsating queen ant, or something like the Guild Navigator from the Lynch Dune. Some Lovecraft thing made up only of balls and cocks with thirteen tentacles on the end each of which reach up into virginal pubescent cervix and squirt gouts of bleach smelling nut that dribbles out into their white cotton panties, which I then wear as a mask. Or I want to be exactly as I am but with some super pheromone that forces high school field hockey players to breed with me bent over dumpsters after practice. I want to be reborn as an amoeba inside the sweaty twat of the magnet school sophomore I sit across from on the red line to North Hollywood. Her tennis shorts. Mexican girl,small teeth big gums but she’s diligent about her homework. Something about that makes me need to put another hideous thing like me into her belly and ruin her dreams and flee the country.

  Every man is like this. Your father is like this. Your teacher and your clergyman. We are not socially conditioned to be this way. We’re born this way like a dandelion’s born for sunshine. Social conditioning is what stops me from becoming emperor of the world, enslaving every scientist, forcing them to engineer me into a bristly pink urchin of dicks rolling over a stadium piled with spreadeagled nubile teens. Again, preferably they are Asian. Preferably they have braces.

  I should have been a jellyfish. Nut on a rock; maybe there are some eggs and you’re done. It’s a curse to be a higher primate. You need looks, clothes, money, hobbies. Getting laid is like applying for college. Passing a credit check. All I want is to impregnate thousands of young Japanese teens with zero consequences of any kind and die from chemical depletion. Starved raisin nuts meekly croaking out dust as I laugh and my soul screams into the sky fulfilled. That or get hit in the crotch with a log. Then I can stop thinking about it.

  Anyway.

  Mr. Universe

  And now I’m shirtless in the park. Trimmed my chest hair this morning. Feel like a naked pink baby. Can’t tell if I look good like this. Sitting Indian style. Folds of fat choked out by my belt. At 9% body fat this still happens. By the time I get rid of my last chub I’ll be so old I’ll just be skin. There’s another shirtless guy and I keep looking over thinking: does he look better than me?

  A girl is checking me out. I guess that means I look good. Now I have this flash of fear. A burning house feeling. A girl looked at me; I better do something about it. This is it, Rocky. Your one shot. She looks away, then back. I don’t have the courage to maintain eye contact. I’d like to think it’s because I’m too mature to pick up girls. It’s because I’m chickenshit. So I look up and awkwardly half smile, making clear that I’m a small dicked nebbish whose seed is unworthy of her loins.

  Relax. She’s not that hot. She’s not Asian so who gives a shit. Little gut behind black high waisted pants. If she talked to me I’d talk back. But it’s my job as a man to talk first. If it’s gonna work like that, what do I get in return. She ought to to pay me.

  She looks again. A giant invisible hand forces my eyes into my phone and mushes my face into a stupid smirk like there’s something amusing on the screen. I know smiling makes my nose looks big. This makes me smile more. I know my teeth are slightly out of whack. Somewhere in my eyes there is probably agony but she’s too far away for that detail. She’s still looking. I’m summoning material in case she talks to me. All those years of words. This is what they’re for.

  If she talks to me I’ll have to ask her out. I don’t want to go out with her. I want her to come home with me and have unprotected sex right this minute. That or nothing. What I don’t want is to dance. Be funny. Have to be funny. Beg a merciless God for enough fucking funny to keep pouring out of me for the long hours it will take to get the pussy. Just please don’t let it lapse into that one awkward instant of fucking up that blossoms into a million dickshrinking eternities. If I have to do all the work why can’t shit happen on my terms. Lift weights, good haircut, couple jokes equals pussy. Jesus Christ, what more do you need. You have to be confident too. You have to keep that confidence in a world where you’re a worm.

  Someone texted her. A shinier object. I’ve blown it. This is the last time I’ll ever have my shirt off and a woman near me. A comet will wipe out all women on Earth. I’ll be compelled to eat 15,000 burritos and get fat. She leans into the sunlight. She has bad skin. Thank God.

  Jack

  One morning he looked in his neighbor’s window and saw a picture of his own cat.

  The guy had his blinds closed like always. But today a computer monitor was pressed up by the window and the slats were pushed aside. There was a narrow triangle of open glass, enough to see in
the apartment. It was stacked high with crap. Old books and magazines. Old art on the walls. Prints of Hudson River Valley school paintings cut out of a coffee table book, taped to the drywall. Certificates and degrees, too far away to read, yellowed, askew in cheap frames. And a picture of his cat. It too was framed. A foot high. iPhone picture, pixelated a little. Fluffykins regarded the camera with a dead mockingbird in his mouth.

  What the fuck, he thought. Well– he’s a cute cat. He got a bird. The neighbor wants a picture, fine.

  He got back to work hauling trash cans to the curb. It was 7AM, garbage day. Every ten weeks or so he’d be a good citizen and take down his building’s cans. After that, work. Then home, eat, jerk off, sleep. Alone but the cat was there. The driveway between complexes was steep. He had to take care not to spill coffee grounds from the cans on his crisp white shirt. 65 per cent polyester. It needed no ironing. He’d purchased five. An investment in adulthood.

  The man’s window faced his across the driveway. At night he’d hear him moaning. He sounded old, and like he hurt. On the way back up to get his briefcase he took one more look. There was an unmade bed against the wall. A duvet cover embroidered with parrots. A black file cabinet in back by the cat picture with a spindly cactus on top, hooked so far toward the window that the pot was about to tip over. A Brother P-Touch label on the top drawer said “BILLS.”

  And a desk, with monitors. Three of them fixed to a jointed chrome arm bolted into the wall. They were beautiful. Broad and slim and gleaming with sapphire glass; nicer than any he’d ever seen. Placed with care at at different heights and angles like the flowers on an orchid. They must have cost thousands. Well to each his own, he thought. I’m glad the old man has something he loves.