I decided in the middle of the meeting: I’m going to relapse. Sick of not staring at the tall black haired girl with the I got herpes from the band tattoos. The tops of Jennie A’s preposterous veiny jugs. Anna M in a little skirt, her tan legs crossed like they could open up any time revealing a tunnel of light and at the end her aging taint. Rachel P in her sheer heather gray cotton dress, little bit of gut hanging like she’s freshly knocked up by the six days of seed I’m sitting on. Listen Alyssa, I’m in the sex addicts thing now. I can’t talk about this stuff with you. Too late. He’d sent 20 pictures of his penis with well thought out composition. She’s proud of how she’s fucking with him. You want my nudes, here you go. Sends some dopey picture of Michael Cera. Do you ever really send nudes, I ask. She says I’m not that kind of girl.
It’s wicked to send pretty pictures and give a sad man relief. It’s virtuous to taunt him. Torture him. Not that kind of girl.
He didn’t want to meet you anyway, I told her. He just wanted to beat off to you into the bathroom sink. I beat off to her into the bathroom sink. Halfway through she turned into the FOB with the sloppy pussy. Six of one half a dozen of the other. I wanted 15 hot ropes but only the first one had any force to it. Wanted to feel like I’d crushed all hope for happiness. My future marriage spattering on the toothpaste crusted drain. All I felt was relief. The nut was abnormally thick and yellow. Took after its mother.
I’d Rather Watch Hitler Rape My Mom Than Date a Woman My Own Age
I have a date tonight. 38 years old. Look at her profile. Half Asian with excellent bone structure. But who cares. What am I gonna do, have kids with her? One quarter Asian kids with half a good looking face? She’s 38. Biologically useless. Fucking her, as productive as sticking my dick in a log. Plus she’s banged 10,000 indie rock bassists no doubt. Has herpes and the bad kind of HPV. The log it is then.
Still, she guards herself like her pussy’s a treasure. Habit. She disputed my choice of date venue. Jesus Christ, you’re 38. Whatever I say you say yes.
A 19 year old could tell me: to get a whiff of my cunt from 50 yards out, you must climb a high cold mountain harried by buzzards. At the top spend one night in a haunted house. I’d say sign me up. But19 year olds– you say El Prado, they say yes. Or they don’t have ID; you walk around the duck pond then fuck. See them again or don’t. They’re happy. 38 year old makes you crawl across nails. Interrogates you off her checklist. Things she dreams of in a man, which you’ll suffer for other men not providing. How do I know you’re not just looking for sex, she asks. Even I won’t know until I nut. If I did I wouldn’t tell you.
Am I just looking for sex. Yes and no. I’d love it if you were a wizard who made me laugh. But even if you’re a bore– if you said: want to go bowling and fuck, no man replies just bowling please.
Don’t you know how men are by now. How can you not after fucking us for a quarter god damn century. Thousands of us. You tasted the grizzled wangs of bartenders and bassists, senators and sewer scrubbers. Teenage twinks and haggard mummies wheeling oxygen tanks. There’s not one cute woman in LA who hasn’t racked up Wilt Chamberlain numbers. How can you do all that and not learn one thing about men. Or you unlearned what you knew. How does the 19 year old know more than you. She knows not to make me pretend.
********
She was the most physically perfect person I’ve ever seen. Half Nepalese half Danish. But I admired her like you admire a painting. No smell to her. She’s a human rights lawyer. A woman who knows what she wants. Not afraid to say it. To her credit, she also knows it doesn’t exist.
She checked her watch. I’d seen a blue crowned night heron at the pond across the street. But instead of taking her there I asked: drive me home. She parked. Want to come in, I said.
Are you being serious? You can’t tell me you’re feeling chemistry here.
No. But you’re hot. I feel nothing but I could push through it. We’re doomed but I’d still like to masturbate into your unfeeling carcass. How about it.
I’m a man who knows what he wants. She said no and we parted amicably.
Fuck Los Angeles
A four bedroom house in Hot Springs Montana is 99 thousand fucking dollars. Estimated mortgage: $382 a month. You get a separate detached cottage. The cottage alone, in this shithole fucking city I live in – this disgusting extension of Mexico but with additional loud helicopters and barking dogs and garbage taxes and women who’d rather be set on fire than smile at you– a cottage next to a stucco nest of murderous bike stealing cholos who grill cactuses and light off fireworks and gun Harleys 24 hours a day, as many of them in there as termites in one of those twelve foot mounds in Kenya– this shed costs seven hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars, plus property taxes to pay for schools with the literacy rate of the fucking Hills Have Eyes family; the mortgage after a hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars down is the entire pre-tax income of the median American household.
Have to get the fuck out of here. Battling for scraps of useless pussy with famous men. Men who direct Radiohead videos. Men who have three secret families holed away somewhere and once killed a man.* Men with nineteen inch smooth veinless cocks and tiny button noses and the cocks vibrate and another smaller cock deploys out from the nuts like the alien’s mouth and pleasantly tickles her asshole. Men with net worths like the amount of platinum they estimate is in asteroids. Car collections and horse collections and commensurate pussy collections. The smell of so much hot twat on them it draws bears.
If I have a Tinder match I know it’s fake. OKCupid: 0 visitors, 0 likes, 0 messages. Unless it’s a message from a fucking man. Give me advice on women, they ask. Here it is: get famous or die trying. Get famous a way women understand: music money or murder. James Holmes does better than you. Hot young girls will move mountains to get at him in prison. I’m human garbage; I pay taxes and work.
Summer in Montana. Winter in the Philippines. Both places I’ll be a god to bucolic primitives. The only man who can read. Every bison steak slinging blue eyed teen waitress trembling for my unholy cunning as I demonstrate an Earth-shattering technological innovation: the stick. Virgin cunts drool in awe at my vast cash hoard: $1700. I’ve grappled with civilization. I lost. Now to the trees. If it doesn’t work out I’ll fuck an elk.
Toxic Masculinity
She’s still in the shower. I just learned Hepatitis C is not transmitted sexually. Per the Hepatitis C Association, which I may now have to join:
Couples with one HCV positive partner had a 2.5 per cent transmission rate over 20 years of unprotected sex
HCV is not found in semen or vaginal fluid
Sexual transmission may be a factor among MSM (Men who have Sex with Men)
So you get Hep C if you fuck men. Your dick gets cut by his dry ass. His ass gets cut by your dry dick. But I fuck women. Therefore: call me sushi, I’m goin in raw.
A woman emails you because she likes your web site. Mexican with a luscious ass and her face is perfect, her skin is perfect. She’s in town because the man who invented (REDACTED) paid for her to fly out and suck his grizzled rich elderly cock. He and the wife are separated, he says. But plans have changed and instead of the house I got you a nice hotel.
This is her modus operandi. Rich men who make computers and spaceships take her out. Try to get her drunk on $3,000 bottles of wine. Promise houses and boats. I’m telling you this so you know how hot she is. I’m telling you how hot she is so you know how great I am.
Perfect face perfect teeth perfect eyes perfect pussy. Get her drunk have her sleep next to you. She knows you might have Hepatitis C. Might. Agrees you probably don’t. In any case she doesn’t care. But you can’t fuck her. It would be unconscionable. To hurt someone even if they want to hurt themselves. I don’t care if I die but dear God don’t let me take some poor girl with me.
You might have hepatitis. Or a bile duct blockage. A parasite. You might have cirrhosis. You thought you had pinkeye and a hernia so you went to Cesar Velez MD to get
eye drops and be told your gut pain was nothing. But your piss test indicates a liver problem. We hear hoofbeats, says the doctor, we do not think it is a zebra. It is horses. The horses for this symptom are: colitis, liver stones, hepatitis C.
But, ahh,… the hep is pretty rare, right? I mean–
That depends. Have you had unprotected sex?
I’m a 40 year old man with a job and I brag about barebacking hookers in the Philippines. I go to bed at 9 so my Tinder dates are daytime. Walks around the duck pond. Meet at 1PM. By 2:30 I’m watching my chest sweat sting her eyes as she squirms under me, every time. Never use condoms, ever. Actually– once. She insisted. After I’d been digging her out raw and sloppy in the unseasonable September heat. Relishing how my cock would stink after. You use conn-domm she said in her Full Metal Jacket “shoooooot… meeeeee” accent, which would have made me cum too fast so I grudgingly put one on. It just trapped her chlamydia laden pussy juice against my dickskin. Rough latex shredding the twat I’d already soaked in a truck tank full of my AIDS laden precum. In fairness, she was more afraid I’d get her pregnant. I told her I was going to.
The girl extended the rich guy’s airline ticket so she could come up from Orange County. Sleep in my filthy apartment sight unseen. Because she likes my work. Suck on that, Jonathan Franzen.
**********
She lost her virginity at 15. Raped on a club dance floor. He didn’t get all the way in before he came but she got pregnant. The miscreant was never found. Biologically, he lived the dream.
She waited three years for the next guy. A TV star was in town. For a segment on exceptional teens. The network paid for his personal assistants and his personal assistants wrangled his exceptional teen pussy. He sent a car for her. He’s still on the air. I like his show. Less now that I know he used a condom. They still talk.
She married a rich guy but left him when she found his laptop. Investment banker. Big international deals. The sole purpose of these deals was to go to places where you can fuck 12 year olds. Entire economies are built this way. No other reason for Goldman Sachs to be in Cambodia. Third world money comes from horny fratboys impregnating child pussy. While you’re there, in the five minutes you tear yourself away from a squealing ringworm-infested meatpile of pubescent human beings sold to you by their mothers, their sisters… here’s a loan for your oil pipeline. Here’s a credit swap for the president’s cousin to invest the proceeds from de-nationalization of the national forest. 50,000 acres of teak becoming Suharto’s personal property, or Sukarno, or whoeverthefuck it is now. Some grinning squinting goblin whose grandfather played ball with Kissinger.
He bought a slave in Honduras. Shipped her back. She found a picture on his phone; toothless mother smiling as the girl held a suitcase with a bow on it. The girl would clean their house and then bend over. He’d leave $500 in the microwave. He got bored with her. She had to become a stripper. On his phone, long wounded text exchanges. You don’t understand how much I hate what I’ve had to do, the Honduran said in startlingly good English.
She found his laptop with a spreadsheet rating every teen hooker he’d fucked all over the planet. I assume he used color coded conditional formatting. I do.
**********
In the morning her tinder had 20 matches. 20 messages. 10 super likes. 9AM, radius one mile. Of the 20 one was good looking and had game. He made me jealous. The rest: hi, how are u, u are hot, u make me hot, let me meet u, let’s meet on your terms, an arrangement, ill do anything, why won’t u talk 2 me. Doctors lawyers CEOs, #founders and #entrepreneurs. I get on her phone and message with them. Just got in town, I tell them. What kind of doctor are you. What is the most common cause of abnormal liver tests. Will it kill a 40 year old man. Ur hot, they reply. Why won’t u see me.
**********
I have to finish this piece but I’m distracted now. I want to go in and fuck her. Spread open her golden ass cheeks and tongue down her asshole. Perfect like the rest of her. Symmetrical as a typewriter asterisk. Pull my face back and leave two shiny smears of pinkeye ointment. She’s ovulating tomorrow. Keeps track on her phone. My cycle is 26 days like a clock, she says. You could cum in me and it would be safe, she says. She’s doing the math wrong but I consider it. The intent would be to fuck up her life. Make her move in with me and wash my dishes. We’d have a good baby; she’s good looking and smart. Stays in touch with her family. I consider it with her like with every girl. Think about it right up until my orgasm comes on. I’m about to fire in her up until the very last millisecond. Then spray on her navel. If I catch myself, admit I’d never follow through– I’ll never cum. I could talk her into keeping it. Life would have some purpose. I could stop being like this.
**********
When I walk down the street with her I want other people to see. I look at her facebook and her friends are like this too. Flawless. All divorced, rich husbands. Big settlements dwindling down to 0 because they spend it on psychics. They get flown around. The men own sports teams. They’re in the process of separating from their wives but for this weekend I got you a hotel.
**********
Listen: I might have hepatitis C, I told her. It’s fine, she says. I didn’t come here to fuck you. I like your work.
Maybe this is a sign. Let’s just be with each other as human beings. We have a talk, a real talk. And then we lay on the couch and watch a film called Shame. A man plummets into ever-worsening acts of sexual degeneracy to escape a mysterious abusive past. It’s raining outside. I fall asleep with her warm back on my chest and the smell of her hair. When I wake up Michael Fassbender is getting blown by a guy and then his face is fucked up, possibly from hepatitis C. Film ends on a cliffhanger. If he continues his addiction he’ll lose his only human relationship. He’s on the subway. Has a choice to chase a chick or not. Cut to black.
We go to bed. I wake up at 3am and we’re both naked and her perfect ass against me. I’m raging hard. And I can’t, I can’t; it would be unconscionable. This is a moment for me. She was sent by God to break my sex addiction. I am not a bad person. I do what I do but I’d never hurt someone else. This is wonderful. Perfect. Having this girl here who I meant to fuck, not fucking her. Just knowing her as a human being. Letting her be less alone in the world. I’m one of God’s creatures, capable of love. In the morning she showers. I have time to google hep C. I push her on the bed and peel her towel off and cum in one minute.
**********
The old guys on her Tinder. Always in Tour de France gear. Kayaking. Arms raised atop a forbidding crag. I’m still a man, they insist.
The guy with game blew it. He had one good line but now: thirsty message after thirsty message. No other way. Girls just get carpet bombed. There’s no being coy. Hanging back, making her chase you. If you don’t constantly send thirsty message after thirsty message you’re not at the top of her inbox. You just disappear.
They don’t need you. Rich men, handsome men, men with cool jobs– doesn’t matter. It could be Barack fucking Obama. We’ve crossed the rubicon. Not even fame will save you. You must pay for additional Super Likes. Max them out every day. When you get one grudging match you must send epic poems of nutcrushing longing one line at a time. All day every day in hopes that the one moment she looks up, yours is on top. In the future men will dance around on fire burning money and ululating, for the one in one thousand chance of a slight eyebrow raise from a 6 with a BMI of high normal. If she’s Asian he’ll have to catch her eye while assassinating the president with his bare hands to get half a head turn. Merely curing AIDS or cracking interstellar travel– forget it.
**********
Meanwhile my liver tests. It’s what, the 7th now. Ovulation day. Results on the 15th. Eight carefree days of waiting. Thinking about surgeries, pills, procedures I’ll need. The cure for liver ailments is they open you up and implant crawling sea urchins, probably.
She’s still here. After we fucked last night I felt something. Contentment, connection. Like it was from God
. She felt it too, I can tell. Some pheromone. She’s ovulating. I didn’t cum in her but close. One drop maybe. Wait for the test on that too. If I didn’t slip I’ll be half disappointed. I am not a pleasant man at all.
Don’t Take Your Love to Town
She came home in at four in the morning. Passed out with a desk lamp blaring straight in her eyes. She’d been out riding a motorcycle with a male model who tends bar at (REDACTED). If you could cheat you would too. What you’re mad about is you can’t.
She went partying with cute boys. Good for her. Can’t be mad for her being the animal she is. I go to take out the trash and find some fucking Chinese fourteen year old bent over in front of me, what am I gonna I do. The problem is: women live in a world of Chinese fourteen year olds bent over. Cock onslaught out there. Literal god damn male models working at the boutique gentrification restaurant that serves lion meat. Tinder, full of comedians from TV.
I don’t want you to feel bad, I told her. It’s just that everything I felt for you got shut off like a light switch.
But I’m happy you had a good time.
A halfway attractive woman’s life: men falling out of the trees. Men so handsome your own face is a cruel joke. They’re six foot eight. Ride vintage Triumphs. Women, if your life is not like this: you’re ugly. I was gonna throw in that they speak five languages but who gives a shit. Only your face matters. Women are like us. I don’t dream about some worldly polyglot. I dream of a woman who sees past shallow things to fall in love with the special person I am. And she better be hot.
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