What a relief.
Second Date Idea
I want to chain you to a pipe. Stop taking birth control. Move into my sweaty apartment. Let go of your possessions. Your pets. I’ll ladle water down your gullet. Sop up your waste. You’ll live off fruits I baby bird down your throat as I impregnate you again and again. Build a bunker underground for our hundreds of offspring. With whom I’ll also breed.
Let me cocoon you to my futon in 1,000 layers of Saran Wrap until you’re an atrophied putrifying jelly. Just a mouth hole and a little bit of face poking out. Only sensory input is my Q tip tickling your eyelids.
Let me bang your fart gas into my aorta with a sharpened turkey baster. Let me war paint with your period. Squat over my face and give me your diarrhea as bronzer. Get AIDS and cut my name into your neck and let me roll in thorns and shower in your dripping AIDS blood. Chew out my eyes then spit them down my dickhole as we 69 to REO Speedwagon. I want to weasel my whole being into your ridgy colon. Shit me out on your palms and lick me off. I need you, I need you to need me. How about it.
Progress Not Perfection
Good morning. Tuesday. Desperately want to not go to work. Don’t want to go to the gym. Don’t want to write. Just want free money and pussy. Just want to impregnate a hundred teens, have everyone else pay for my babies. Worship me as a god. I just want blimps with 800 foot LED pictures of my face a la Blade Runner humming in the airspace over schools telling kids their highest ambition should be to take my seed and clean my stove and be entombed alive in my pyramid. I just want my face stapled to Japanese junior high muff with the long straight jet black toilet brush textured pubes while I’m fed by enema. Never work never pay bills. I’d still find something to complain about.
Last night’s AA meeting. The speaker was hot. Fat young Mexican from Moorpark named Stephanie. We flirted for two seconds after but then I got pulled into a talk with a guy. An alcoholic whose life is falling apart who actually needed help. The purpose of my being there. Talked him off a ledge. I feel no spiritual growth from doing this. I regret not letting him spend his child support money on crack. I regret not horning into a conversation with Stephanie instead. Laying groundwork for when I’d pump her fat bald Mexican Moorpark pussy full of babies. Trap her at home changing diapers and yammering in Spanish to some aunt in Pacoima about how I’m a bad man while I’m out drunk. Cheat on her with a bar waitress, a white one. Come home, give her a black eye when she tries to complain. Bitch, give suck to my kids and make burritos and be grateful. Why can’t I have what I want for once.
OKCupid: My Life is Perfect
They hit 30 and the profiles start saying:
My life is perfect. I just need a man to share it with.
At 1AM her chihuahua woke me up licking the back of my balls. I want to say I thought it was her, waking me with a blowjob. But I knew it was the dog. Been woken up by OKCupid girls’ ball licking dogs about a thousand times more than blowjobs. My life is perfect means she has a dog. Dog job BMW cocktails with the girls. Mid century modern furniture. A hanging copper fruit basket. Books arranged by color. She likes you, she says about the dog. She doesn’t usually like men. Heard this a thousand times. I’ve told a thousand women: the cat doesn’t like you. Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t like anybody. Once in a while he lets them get a palm on his back and I tell them this is exceptional.
I don’t give a shit if the cat likes you. It’s not a sign we’re meant to be. You could walk in the room and the cat could scream like he’s on fire. I’d still fuck you. I’d still care how fast you text me back for a week. I’d still stop caring after a week. The cat can run and hide like his back leg was crushed by the garbage truck or snuggle up to your neck. He’s not the one who’s gotta fuck you. True too with the dog. Your new man won’t like the dog. The dog won’t like him. You’ll still end up with him instead of me. Typically he’s British. I hope it’s the same guy with all of them. Same British guy doomed to wander the earth dating Korean yuppies who dumped me.
My life is perfect. Just need a woman to share it with. I have no money. I drive a certified pre owned mid size family sedan. When you lift any object in my house it’s like a log in the forest after rain. Hideous wet invertebrates with poison pincers scatter. Some flee to my underwear drawer. They’ll lay in wait to gnaw my sac with chittering H.R. Giger mandibles and give me instant flesh necrosis. Pots in the refrigerator with mashed potatoes from June blooming with delicate otherwordly fungus. Books covered with dust and old toenails and hollow dead spiders.
I have friends but never see them. Every day wake up alone. Write something not worth reading. Drive to work with the obnoxious radio. Work a job where saying my title makes my dick shrink like I’m eight years old in a cold lake. Collect a salary that puts me in the top ten per cent of all individuals in America, the point zero one three per cent of all people on Earth; I am one of the highest earning people who has ever lived, according to some dick measuring money web site that tries to sell me mortgages. I make three times more than the average family in my city, which is one of the most expensive in history. And my income is laughable. I own nothing but a pile of debt and a laptop. A couple guitars and a bike (edit: that got stolen yesterday). Middle class money is nothing. Even with no wife no kids, one bedroom in a stucco building with a cinder block wall and two wilting agaves in the dirt off the front porch– in terms of pussy, you’re a legless beggar in India.
Money is nothing unless you have enough to brag about. People think there’s more than there is. The median pre tax income for an American household is fifty two grand. To brag you’d have to pay ten times that in taxes. All books and articles and movies and shows are about rich people. All public figures are rich people. All sitcom apartments are worth ten million dollars as a convenience of set design. So being rich looks normal. Just like cop shows make competent cops look normal, because the case has to wrap after the fourth commercial. Really they just write tickets and kill blacks.
Wake up. Write alone. Write shit and spend the day ruminating how your writing is shit. Menial work, lunch break, menial work. The gym, where your pathetic genetic waste of a body groans on every joint with every rep. You’d like to think it’s aging but it’s always been like this. You were always a boneless gangly flopping marionette even at sixteen. The shape your body wants to be, if you skip two weeks of pro athlete level weight training, is floppy daddy long legs limbs hanging off a distended jelly gut. How did my ancestors survive. Why wasn’t my bloodline mercifully extinguished. It’s a gay gym, which means 60 year old steroid blasting freaks with bodies a thousand times better than mine. Fine. Motivating. But gay music. All gyms by law should only play AC/DC. Ramones, Motorhead, Black Sabbath, NWA. Mine plays the HIV remix of Miley Cyrus. The hepatitis remix of Ke$ha. Gay men’s interest in teenage girls: unseemly. I just want to statutory rape them like a normal person.
That’s an hour. Then AA. You’re there to be lifted spiritually by serving others. You spend 53 out of 60 minutes sulking over a better looking guy with the one hot girl. Newcomers identify themselves. You must help them. Get their numbers. Later sit through awkward calls with them like talking to your grandmother on Christmas. Go home. Read woman hating forums and reddit threads about A Song of Ice and Fire. Then bed. Somewhere in there beat off with the Powerful Male Stroker it took 20 years to get the guts to buy. About one day in ten you think about killing yourself. Get mad at your mother for being the reason you don’t. Typically that’s weekends. Typically after you haven’t written anything good. You’ve written a thousand things. Six of them are good.
What good are you if you’re not rich. If you’re not famous. If you’re not– not merely decent looking but exceptionally, freakishly good looking. What good are you if your penis is not nine inches long or more, which girls think is slightly above average. Which is in fact three and a half standard deviations above average. My IQ is probably three and a half standard deviations above average. But it doesn’t hit cervix.
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br /> She wants to write. She has writer’s block. An in. You have to know something she doesn’t. Have more money. Be better looking. Nicer car. You have to know more than her about her favorite thing that she spends all her time learning about. You have to be the only person who can solve the One Big Problem Otherwise My Life Is Perfect. Writer’s block is the only problem I can solve. God help me if I had to change a tire.
You solve writer’s block by eating shit and being in agony for years. Force yourself to hammer out worse than useless garbage for hours that feel like lifetimes. Every day, until something clicks and you suddenly need it as therapy. Sit there with a demonic inner voice shrieking at you for a decade. And remember: this is a decade of calendar time. In subjective time, one instant of writing feels like years walking dark mazy corridors of third degree burn self hatred. Like Stephen King’s The Jaunt. Come back with white hair jabbering it’s longer than you think.
Anyway, just do that. Your self hating voice never gets tamed. Even after you get a little known. Make a little money. Girls in different cities mail you dirty panties and buy plane tickets to fuck you and you walk around with a secret. I am INTERNET FAMOUS, god dammit. I am a REVERED CULT AUTHOR, fat Chinese woman selling me gas station cigarettes. That’s what you’re seeing in my eyes. Once in a while your gaze makes other men look down at cracks in the sidewalk. I have 22 “positive” Amazon reviews and my hundred thousand hours of work has earned me almost what I make in one week as a fucking secretary. Look upon my works and despair.
My life is perfect. Just need the perfect woman to share it with. Well she kind of is perfect. Asian with tits who does not take birth control. She’s 36. This means dropping sperm in her is like dropping a pinball in one of those Rube Goldberg animations from The Electric Company. God knows what unholy birth defect it’ll land on. But she wraps her legs around your back and grabs on to you like she wants it and I do find the dog charming.
I Am Not Allowed to Think about Hot Young Pussy
I joined Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Day three of no jerking off. No looking at Tinder, OKCupid. No looking at women with lust in my heart. This means: no looking at women. No fantasizing. Which means: do not think about Lara. Our date to the bird sanctuary. Had to cancel. No thinking about her hair her tits her eyes her face. The curve of her jawline and her neck. Her voice. She likes me. I like her. Kind of a lot. She described me as “a staggeringly talented writer.” We share the exact same opinion on the one important thing.
Don’t think about the taste of her hairy pussy sweating in the summer heat. Her squatting over my face while her AC groans and does not cool the room. No writing about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. Sex is the story. There is nothing else on Earth. Birds, flowers, sunsets: go fuck yourself. Money work friends family sobriety service to other human beings: blow it out your ass. I wake up every morning so I can feel hot salty chowder spurt out of my dick. Preferably into the smelly cooch of an emotionally disturbed teen. Every other moment is just labor to support the meat sac that I am so it can fulfill this purpose. Why have a thoroughbred if you just keep it in the barn.
If you find yourself looking at a woman, look away. Typically I’d masturbate as soon as I got home. Take my vibrating Powerful Male Stroker and strap a medical glove over it. Fill it with Curel® Ultra Healing® Intensive Lotion for Extra Dry Skin, recommended by dermatologists. Tuck it between two pillows. Search Bing® , watch a fat Japanese teen skewered by impossibly long thick Mandingo penis. Jap girl sex sounds weird you out at first, but they grow on you. Plop the unwieldy vibrating pillow Frankenstein on my dick and let it milk me until I cum so fast I’m still only half hard. Then I can think about other things. Other worthless things like food, money, art, literature. And so forth.
Day one I went to an AA meeting. A girl was wearing lingerie for pants. Her boyfriend broke up with her. Her share about it, like reading a young adult ebook written by a Fiverr hire. But dragging my eyes off her succulent young kneecaps was like pulling a mother away from a burning house with her kid in it. I want Sharia law imposed. Burqas for all. The back of a thick nurse’s jiggly hamstring. Inch of a schoolgirl’s elbow, miraculously without that weird texture like the butt end of a baked chicken drumstick. You realize it’s because she’s twelve years old.
Everywhere. You don’t know how much you think about sex until you try to stop, they told me. Bullshit, I thought. Or true for every man but me. Have you read my shit?
I was wrong. I think about sex more than I talked about. More than is physically possible– I distort time to think about fucking. I think about fucking within fucking within fucking like Inception. Can’t have a woman in my peripheral vision without latching on to her like the Terminator. Picture my tongue on every inch of her skin. Lick off her makeup and her lilac scented Secret®, strong enough for a man PH balanced for a woman. Her half lilac half summer taint smelling sweat therefore clocking in at a perfect 7.0 as I feast on her three day armpit stubble. Don’t write about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. What else am I going to write about, the fucking economy? Guys chasing money so they can fuck.
No conversations with women. This is easy. If I don’t do all the work, nothing happens. Sometimes not even then. My sponsor shared an anecdote about his spiritual growth. His band had played a show. A cute girl spoke to him in a flirtatious manner. He turned her away. The shining trophy of sexual sobriety is: you can turn down pussy if it throws itself at you. Well what if you’re not in a band. What if you’re a conscientious hardworking reasonably well dressed taxpayer, aka: nothing. I’ve had two women approach me in my lifetime. One of them was a virgin who went crazy. Called me every day for two years. The other was a retarded Chinese Jehovah’s Witness. The week before she’d slept with a homeless guy from the subway. I took her bowling, then home. Pulled up her dress and licked her soft belly. Her little panties with a tiny salt crust from her fat cu– DON’T THINK ABOUT IT
My Brief Abstinence Career
What the fuck is a guy in a band going to tell me about pussy. I need a sponsor who’s also a pathetic nebbish. Someone who only barely gets laid through excruciating toil.
Went to an SLAA meeting last night. You think it’s gonna be like AA. Where you hear a guy saying woke up from a blackout in upside down in my flipped minivan… felt something warm in my face… it was my son’s blood… I crawled to the liquor store… and everyone laughs. SLAA is a bunch of weird old Lesbians talking about getting molested. 3 young Mexican bottoms with baby deer eyes always on the verge of weeping. One old bear who does, admittedly, have great stories about banging sailors on meth. But it’s all weepy shit. I shared. I hate this organization, I said. No jerking off and no looking at girls. I want sharia law to be imposed but I’d find a way to jerk off to a woman’s eyebrows. In conclusion: fuck all of you; this group just makes makes me miserable. No one laughed.
**********
Woke up not feeling so bad. Well, I’m agitated. But I was capable of reading Nick Kelman’s Girls. Long involved underage sex scenes without popping wood as hot sauce shit screamed out of my ass. Merely letting words pass through a shallow layer of mind without waking my sex drive. It’s been shut in some corner. A gorilla in a cage, quietly seething, waiting to rip the arms off the guy who comes to put gruel through a slot in the door. What happens when you starve it. Does it just die and go away. I have dreamed of this day.
Think of what you’d accomplish. I feel I like I could conquer the stock market. Crank out clickbait that got me a billion views. I could do all this because: who cares. No point to anything. Without sex no reason to live. So you might as well build an army. Might as well scrape the red phosphorus off a crate full of match heads with a nail clipper file, one little match at a time, a hundred thousand times, put it all in a water cooler bottle with a shoebox worth of screws. Do this fifteen times. Put all those in Uhaul. Park it in front of a school. What I’m not inspired to do is marvel at God’s creation. Help the elderly. Be of service to my f
ellow addict. I just want to beat up crippled people.
**********
I lost my only chance at happiness not going to the bird sanctuary with her.
She was the one. No question. I know she’s the one because of course I would find the one this week. The perfect date lined up with her and then my sponsor imposes Sharia law. Of course God’s plan– out of all the infinite galaxies, trillions of light years of space filled with uncountable organisms living lives of hope, fear, pain– all this was constructed solely to build me up slowly over decades and make me yearn for true love. Then briefly offer me a chance at it. Then pull it away at the moment of opportunity.
Of course I lose it by my avoidable choice. Some bullshit thing like joining a second twelve step program. I could have reversed this up until now just by beating off. I’d be out of the program. I’d have called her and gone. Held hands by the cormorants. Lived a perfect life filling her with beautiful babies forever. But now the weekend’s over. Now I’ll die alone. She’s at the bird sanctuary with another man. He has a huge, huge penis. They’ll have joy that should have been mine while I step on a needle and get AIDS. God laughs.
**********
Well I beat off. To Alyssa. After the AA meeting she started showing me her Bumble messages. She was fucking with some guy who asked for nudes. Her long black hair. She’s fat. Not great looking in the face either. But she’s a woman. Her fat Mexicanness brought to mind the fat 23 year old Taiwanese FOB I fucked two Sundays ago. White cotton underwear, pink rings around the thigh holes, some childish pattern on them. Hot loose slippery pussy with a little tang to it from walking around the park in the heat. Her fat belly under me. My sweat dripping into her eyes and her squirming, shielding her face and squealing with her stupid accent. Alyssa in a blue dress pink panties underneath. Fat little baby hands. She asked me for a high five and our palms touched. Hers was warm. It was over.
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