My dad didn’t die. Now he’s waking up. Emotional roller coaster. Got back and went to AA. Saw my painter friend. He’s marginally famous. I told him I’d been in San Francisco, made an amends. Also I fucked this housewife who writes me emails in a hotel off Telegraph Avenue. I came in her. I hope she gets pregnant. How does that happen, he asked. Well I write shit on a web site. Some of it’s about sex. Girls then write me from various towns and ask to fuck.
So you’re like Tucker Max, he said. The truth is too complicated so I said yes and pictured taking the flamethrower from Alien to Tucker Max, his horsefaced wife and his stupid baby. It’s different. My shit is good and it really happened. Why then is he rich and I’m broke.
But my friend was impressed. I get more ass from this than he gets being Julian Schnabel junior. I can bitch but I have pussy lined up all over the world. Told my old man about it in his coma. Somewhere he laughed.
If It Flies Floats or Fucks
She has nowhere to go. Stop making your readers think I’m a hooker, she says. Will you please buy me a plane ticket.
And I do. It’s cheap, a hundred bucks. And I’m a trick for doing it. But who fucking cares. In six weeks I’ll turn forty. Nothing left to prove with pussy. I look like the fucking chamberlain from the Dark Crystal. Never had money. I’ve had the shittiest, most debased jobs; spinach pickers are cooler than me. Went to the shittiest schools for pussy. Lived in the shittiest towns for pussy. Walk around feeling my gangliness, ugliness, stupidity, weird voice weird face small penis like a cigarette burning the back of my neck since I turned six fucking years old and I’ve still got more pussy than anybody. I’ve fucked like god damn Caligula. The Floyd Mayweather of pussy. No fun to watch but I am un fuckin defeated.
Now, ease into being a sugar daddy. A hundred bucks. Unquestionable grade A piece of ass in my house. She grew up middle class but fucks like a ward of the state. Walk with her down the street. Have guys look at me, think I’m cool. Pretend she’s my wife. Have her listen to me. Tolerate me. I get to sleep next to somebody and be touched. A good deal.
We’ll say I love you. Talk about making it work. Pretend it goes somewhere. That’s what I’m paying for. Feeling that it has a future. Paying for pussy: absurd. When my last date told me her dad beat her I took her home and choked her out with a finger in her ass. Made her look in the mirror. We’d known each other sixty minutes. Pussy is free. Love you have to buy. Buy it with charm, fame, or just money. Whatever it is, better have more than her.
I make her write every day. Only way I know to help her. Only way to make her respect me. She’s good. And she’s a hot girl. Year from now she’ll be famous. I’ll wave as she rolls up the limousine window. She’ll forget me when she eclipses me. Women have to lose. When they win you make them sick.
Relax. Channel your love into compassion. Be a good host. Show a good time. Get her mind off problems. Love her like a friend. Like someone you can help. If you love her like a girlfriend she’ll kill you. Last time she almost fucked the guy who wrings out dishrags at the corner bar. Broke your heart a little. This time, who knows. She could get hooks in you. Destroy hope that you can love again. After all it’s full GFE.
One Small Act of Kindness
He lived alone. Every morning the same spider had fallen in the bathtub. An elegant silvery-looking affair. He’d pick her up carefully by three legs (one leg would have just snapped off). Place her by her web in the corner behind the shampoo bottle. Every morning she’d be back twitching by the drain.
One day he fired up the hot water, slipped on the soap and fell with a crack. And there she was. She was a woman now. Tall and elegant in a silvery dress with the mist shrouding her in rainbows. She held him. Stroked his chest with her soft palm while the hot water hissed on the tiles. I’ve traveled a long time, she said. Looking for one small act of kindness. Finally I’ve found you. She bit into his head and began sucking out the juice.
That Pussy Will Cost You
The last thing I haven’t given over to God. Women. I’ve surrendered work money emotions friends family… everything. Go out in the park in the morning, hear the wind hiss in the leaves. Know that I’m a puny mote in the universe. All will be taken care of. Or it won’t. And I’ll die. And it won’t matter.
But women– there’s no let it happen. I’ve been waiting 40 years for fucking reverse Cinderella to come knocking. And– well shit, it happened once but, a) because of my web site and b) she fucking took off.
Women. If you don’t do absolutely all the work, if you don’t make yourself absolutely exceptional, if you’re not handsome, not tall, not rich– if you don’t have absolutely everything, work for decades to get it, grind yourself down to nothing every instant of every day to maintain it, and (in spite of all this) if you don’t appear to just have it effortlessly– you’ll have no women. Once I’d have said “no woman” but I know better now. “Women,” a substance.
No women would be fine. The dream now is Ted Kaczynski. Shack in Montana; bighorn sheep regard me impassively from the hillside. Blue-white mountains. Tall creaking pines. Except you need to be touched. You need people like you need air, or at least it’s a difference of degree not type. So you have this need that squalls 24 hours a fucking day, never gets sated. And if you don’t work– it will never just happen. There’s no good luck with women. Only the luck you make. If I have to do the work I’ll chase what I want. Rawdog moronic teen poets.
The fucking argument I have to have with my sponsor over Angela coming. He’ll be right; it’s indefensible. Stupid on its face to have this insane thirty four years old and therefore not the mother of my children whore come and stay with me. Except: a) it’s cheap and b) my other option is more Tinder dates. Every woman on Tinder is an idiot who will make you sick. There are no exceptions.*
Or have a leathery old Chinese woman gently hoist my balls skyward as she mechanically chokes my raging purple member. If they cleaned you off with a hot towel it’d be OK. But she takes a wad of toilet paper and smears the fat thick fishy smelling drops off your belly and then sprints to discard it in the bathroom wastebasket. That jizz is my DNA. It is me— treat it like it’s something better than dogshit.
He’s concerned that she’s a coke sniffing drunk. Which is true. That she’s insane. Which is true. And last time she went to fuck a god damn bartender named Chase who rides a motorcycle and auditions for CW shows and works at (REDACTED local restaurant). That was the killer. She’ll fuck another man and can I take it. I think yes. If I can keep my abusive stranglehold on her mind.
She’ll give you STDs, he tells me. Normally I’d say impossible, buts she fucks black guys and black people are where STDs come from. They pick them up in prison, spread them to hood skanks who spread them to that one gateway guy who can’t rap so he does slam poetry to white girls in coffee shops. Or no, I’m being racist. Some STDs you catch from being in a band. Syphilis comes from black people. Herpes from wiry punk singers. I’m sure she fucks them too.
*Except you, honey.
Sugar Baby
She was in Mexico and she’d left him. He’d bought her a plane ticket to visit him. She said extracting money from men made her feel love. He acquiesced. Then he said a mean thing on the internet. She read it. I don’t think it’s a good idea to see you anymore. Take care, she said, on Whatsapp. Above it her picture smiling like the sweetheart of Sigma Chi.
What to say back. You don’t mean this. You’re crashing off ecstasy, off coke; you’re drunk and fucking some meathead but you’ll remember you love me when you’re back.
Or: fair enough, give me back the plane fare money.
Or let it hang. Always the best answer. Say nothing. Let her fight it out in her own head and come back to… what, the truth? No, this was a woman.
But she was different.
She was leaving him or not. Either way, fine. But the first time a girl says goodbye is a fakeout. Responding makes you look weak. Buying into her world which she knows is crazy. She want
s you to not take her bullshit. But I want her bullshit, he thought. Don’t leave me. I want her to be with me in my bed while the cold rain shakes the trees outside my window, I want that to be happening now instead of her being in Mexico with some 2d tier city stockbroker listening to his jaw shiver as he yammers coke talk about the Dave Matthews band or whatever Texas finance people talk about. Big game hunting. Church.
He got on OKCupid. Sent 20 messages as welcome as an Adobe Flash update and one that stuck. He’d wanted a break from this but now a firm hand was needed. She had a body like a fat little boy and her teeth were planted by a drunk. I don’t want to sleep with you, she said when they got back to his apartment. No one does but somehow it happens. She was 20; her cunt was dirty; she’d been out drinking and hadn’t showered in 36 hours and he knew he’d be smelling his left hand jerking off for days. Nature accepts no substitutes. He went to look at Whatsapp with the feeling of just having fucked new pussy. Her message still hurt. I’m sorry, he texted. Then erased it. Then he called her a retarded cunt and erased it and then he had to drive the 20 year old home. They all live in Koreatown now.
What’s the worst case scenario, he thought. She never comes back. What you had was nothing. Or worse it was something and you ended it hurting her. You let it hang, you’ll never know. Text back I’m sorry. Text back: donate the plane fare to the retarded cunt foundation. I’d say make it in your name but that’d be redundant.
She’ll get over it when she gets over it. Women are like the weather. All you can do is get under a roof. You’ll never see her again. This was your last chance to feel something. She’s pretty but that’s just inconvenient. Every rich prick on earth chases after her. She’s compelled to be with them like me with the college girls, he thought. But they don’t have what we have.
But what if they do. What if she has 20 men she shares herself with and there’s enough to go around.
She believed in God and helped disadvantaged teens. She did coke and fucked married men and got rape me drunk four nights a week. She was a good writer. That alone, impossible. What did I lose it for, he thought. I didn’t mean anything bad. He’d written ten things calling her a cunt and each one got a text saying: I loved it. But the last one didn’t have the little hook. The bit about this is why I love her. It had a title with the word “pussy,” ensuring many views. People like to read fuck cunt pussy.
She never loved me. She was just bored. Now she’s not. You can have her as long as she doesn’t have a better offer. Or a job. Her own money. A Nintendo. A dog. A Netflix show she likes. You can have her for as long as she’s desperate as you while everyone offers her everything. You need a woman so damaged she drives everyone else away. A woman as lonely as you. You need a retarded woman, he thought. A woman who had her legs chopped off. Not an inspirational one who runs marathons on carbon fiber sticks either. A woman with chopped off legs who’s miserable. You need Terry Schiavo on full life support; spoon her pureed butternut squash, watch her squint trying to comprehend Dora the Explorer. She’d still find a better deal. Good luck out there, he texted, and erased it.
Now she’s not coming and I could text her back but it’s gone too long. Anyway she’s getting fucked in Mexico, he thought. Good luck out there. I must admit I’m half in love with her. More fool I.
Tell Me You Love Me
Tell me you love me. Come see me, stop drinking and start going to bed at 9PM, get over your need to be with rich guys; stop fucking douchebags and doing cocaine but don’t ask me to stop fucking Tinder cretins. Live in my apartment like an appliance. Be a refrigerator for my dick. A dishwasher for my balls. A garbage disposal for my ideas. Tell me how great I am and that my chicken is delicious and then leave. Come see me and stroke my ass like the old Chinese lady who jerks you off at the shady massage place but do it for free and let me beat you at Scrabble. All you have to do is be pretty. And want nothing, or want so little that what I have is enough.
Write Some More You Lazy Fuck
I had a new OKCupid message. Got excited for a second. It was a man. He said: write some more you lazy fuck.
My dad died Monday morning. I was fresh off the plane back in LA. Made amends on his deathbed. He was in and out of consciousness. Who knows if he heard what the fuck I said. You sacrificed for my education and all I did was get high. You wrote me letters and I never wrote back. I blew off my brothers. Patrick went to college in California and I only saw him twice. This was selfish, isolating and disrespectful of me and I want to make amends for it.
He’d come in and out. A tube dripped vanilla Ensure straight into his stomach while a pump breathed for him through his tracheotomy. Hoses and catheters and his feet raised up on cushions to drain his swollen ankles. They gave him Haldol; he was struggling. His kidneys were shot so the drugs didn’t fade. He just kept nodding off. Dad I want you to know that I’m gonna be closer to my brothers. My stepmom. That I’m gonna be there for them.
He died. I was at work. Kept working while white noise filled my head and chest and I couldn’t cry until I got home and saw a picture of him on Facebook. Finally that site was good for something.
The Dirty Mexican Cunt is living with me now. She was a professional grief counselor. The old joke is: whore in the bedroom chef in the kitchen. I forget what the third one is. Should be whore in the bedroom, grief counselor every other place. A whore for five minutes and then it’s OK baby it’s OK. She’s with me because of this web site. Haven’t posted in two weeks. Write some more you lazy fuck.
He’d wake up restrained and start screaming: hide the guns. I didn’t shoot anybody. Thought he was in jail in Texas. On the trip out West with Santangelo and O’Hara– I’m using fake names, but they’re actually less guinea/ mick than the real ones. Fakes because Santangelo killed a (REDACTED) and he might still be alive somewhere. Dad had cops in three towns plus the staties after him because he (REDACTED). I don’t know what O’Hara did. Back then you could just leave town.
Tonight, back on a plane for the funeral. In between– work, come home. The poor girl– I brought her here to party. Get some drama. Last time I got four good posts out if it. Now she holds me at night and I cry. I think about impregnating her. Have a kid I can take to the lake.
Maybe I’ll get some ashes. On Christmas I’m climbing Mexico’s tallest volcano. Seems like his speed. But when I go, take me to the lake where he took me. We watched the rain beat the water flat. Crouch down, line up your eyes right and see the curve of the Earth. I need to get back.
40
Of course I can’t fucking write this morning. Needed to prove something to myself. I’m fucking 40. 40. I’ll die young. Dad died at 67. So did his dad. His dad and his dad and so on. 27 years left.
Whatever– that’s a long time. Three weeks would be a long time. 57 minutes until I have to leave for work. Feels like planets could coalesce out of space dust, go through volcanic cataclysms, roaring flaming atmospheres. Sentient algae come into being. Form civilizations. All that could happen in the eternity it took me to write that fucking sentence. By the time I go warm up the Subaru, sixteen pages of this stream of consciousness shit. Maybe one sentence usable. People say life is short. It isn’t. Not even in retrospect.
40. The whole time broke. Didn’t write for ten years. When I started again it was garbage. Still garbage. No one reads it. And that zero cut in half since I stopped telling bald dorks how to get OKCupid pussy. No one’s interested in my shit. Except–no, I get emails occasionally. Keep at it man. Your shit saved my life. That feels good. Or, better still: I’m a girl, let’s fuck.
Lately though it’s people wanting work on resumes. Here’s a resume tip: jam a fucking AIDS needle in your eye. You read how I hate work. How the only thing I hate worse is job seeking. You think what this guy needs is to work on my resume. Go back in time, become a fetus and get Zika. One of them was a Viet girl. Thought it might turn into pussy. But she’s gay. Go get a job being gay.
Here’s my advice. Burn your resume and never
get a job. Never. My mom inculcated the value of work by having me get a job at McDonald’s. It taught me I’m a piece of shit. Worthless meat occupying space to– I want to say “flip burgers” but I stop myself. The McDonald’s clamshell grill sears both sides of the patty simultaneously. I’m meat taking up space at the Quarter Pounder station until they can figure out the robots. A liability sucking four bucks an hour from the system.
All I wanted was to write this morning. Plus at least $2 million for free and to impregnate a fifteen year old Asian. It’s my birthday and it sucks and I’ll be miserable. Have to go to fucking work. A mountain of tasks. They may or may not throw me a surprise luncheon that I don’t want but if they don’t do it I’ll be pissed. The staff– women who won’t fuck me so why are they alive.
Don’t ever work. The Earth used to provide for you. You were made to wake up, spend a few minutes impaling one animal that would feed your village for a week. Then lay around and fuck all god damn day. Look at the stars. Make up stories– there’s the Great Buffalo. The Great Crow. The Great Squirrel, whateverthefuck– hey let’s fuck some more. There was no get sick suffer long die old. You got fucked up a little bit, you were dead. So if you were alive you were perfect.
Now– the opposite of what you were made for. Work, stare at a screen, worry about your god damn 401(k). Will it be enough to sustain you and your wife and your kids whom you spent a million dollars college educating so they could have enough to sustain their wife and kids. You inherit nothing. Everything must come from the sweat of your brow while hustling liars steal it from you.
I’m fucking 40 years old. A middle aged man. Live alone in an apartment with cat hair in the rug. Half cotton half poly wrinkle free dress shirts. I’m an ordinary working American they talk about in campaign ads. Except I’m alone, no one loved me, no one married me; the only thing that could be worse is if someone had. I have a stupid web site nobody reads. This is the standout achievement of my life. I tried to turn it into money by asking three dollars for the shit that was the pinnacle of my inspiration. It did not make me famous. 40, running out of people to compare myself to. Houellebecq and his god damn too hard to spell name– at 39 he’d written Whatever. A revered cult sensation.
The Pussy Page 20