When I fuck a girl, to stay hard, I have to think about getting her pregnant, moving to the suburbs, having her quit her job, me making enough money for both of us. Having her love me, having us give up this war of dick pussy money. Just live in a house together. Nice yard with trees. Wake up beside her on a fall morning. Watch her while she sleeps. How her hair lies on the pillow. The smell of her neck.
I take my sponsor’s love advice even though he’s basically an idiot. This OKCupid and Tinder with you; it’s compulsive, he says. Surrender shit to God’s hands and learn to love yourself. Go talk to women in real life. Seek genuine connection, etc. He’s an idiot because he’s good looking and gregarious. What then would he know about women. I spend every second of my inner life gnawing at my own soul and my face looks like it was hit with a shovel. Yet I occasionally get laid. Therefore: genius.
Anyway, I tried it. Turns out there are no women anywhere to talk to. They’ve all been sequestered away somewhere by louder better looking men. They’re all at some house I wasn’t invited to, some party with a pool. When there is one– like, there’s a cute girl at one of the AA meetings I go to. I’ve noticed her a couple times. Young Asian, perfect face, but those weird buck teeth so you think you have a shot. After the serenity prayer I waited patiently on the sidewalk for my chance to talk to her. Finally it came. The instant half a word was out of my mouth another, louder man swooped in and literally grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her toward him and asked her on a date. He was uglier than me, even– or at least, he has no chin; he is stupider than me, less funny than me. But he knew one thing: all men are piranhas swarming on one thumb sized piece of flesh. There are a billion men behind every fucking bush and forget waiting for your shot. Coming up with the right shit to say. You won’t get an instant of a woman’s time. You better make an instant, and when you do you better pull the trigger.
She said no. She was embarrassed and scared. He didn’t get his date but what he did was enough to blow it for me. Me and my long setup, show how funny I am, and then subtly, subtly over weeks build something up. I’m left standing there like a douche knowing I’m just like him. A difference of degree not type.
Anyway: her loss.
Here’s the whole fantasy. You are at the doctor’s office. Or at work. There is a pretty young woman there. That alone: fantastical. She is not looking at her phone, grunting cruelly at some other guy’s text. She does not have a boyfriend. She looks at you. You are not invisible to her. Not innately puke-inducing like a silverfish found in her panty drawer, hauling its unwieldy H.R. Giger chitin sperm casing between wispy twitchy legs and trailing a six inch smear of dust and hair from under the refrigerator. An attractive woman a) exists in the same place as you b) acknowledges you. c) does not recoil and cry out for some other guy, her boyfriend, to come kill you with a magazine you while she hides her eyes, and later she’ll tell the story of the ugly silverfish in her drawer to her colleagues, wail on facebook, make an accusing phone call to her landlady.
A pretty girl who does not have a boyfriend a) exists, and b) thinks things, and says them; she speaks and then you are having a two sided conversation. Not just you digging into the terrified cavernous emptiness of your adrenalized OH FUCK A PRETTY GIRL head for a perfect thing to say, voice cracking like Peter fucking Brady, flailing to drag it out past her first sentence when it becomes clear she never thinks about anything. Or if she does, it’s dogs, or astrology. She talks to you and wants to know you and plays you some nice music and you keep hanging out and between now and when she becomes your girlfriend none of the fifteen billion other men on Earth get in her face with a better proposition, and suddenly your texts go unreturned for long painful eons, and the desperate agony makes you repulsive to her like a gangrenous wound. To her, and all other women.
Every day you are a worm dying on the sidewalk after the rain. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl picks you up and tosses you back on the grass. She’ll leave you. That’s part of the trope. But all you needed was just once, a nice pretty girl talks to you somewhere. You got a better shot at crapping out the crown jewels.
That Puerto Rican girl Cynthia. Perfect tits perfect ass near perfect face. I don’t remember if she had a perfect pussy but I remember after I came too fast the first time she got me hard again in five minutes by sucking me off and doing some weird trick with my balls. Kind of reaching through my sack and fiddling with something the way you would reattach a hose on a car engine and I got stiff like a reflex. The first time was for me, telling her to go slow, go slow, then blasting in her in two minutes when she was on top. Second time was for her, doggy style shoving her face in the pillow so she couldn’t breath and then letting her up and yanking a fistful of ponytail back, pulling her ass back into me, choking her, pounding her like a jackrabbit. Not my thing but it got her off. She’d been to Japan, she said. It’s so safe people sleep on the street. All their weird sex stuff is because there’s no connection between people sexually. It’s about the individual’s fantasy. E.g. you wrap me in saran wrap and tickle under my nose with fifteen year old girls sweaty panties while I shit myself. Really interesting stuff, she said. Why didn’t I call her– she was pretty smart too, and had her shit together. It was because she wouldn’t kiss me at first. She’d only kiss when she got really hot. Before that she would just nibble on your lip a little and then pull her head back and laugh. It takes all kinds.
On Saturday we handed out MISSING flyers for Nikol’s son who ran away. Hundred and six degrees in the valley; heat-angry people think you’re trying to sell them something when you walk up and say excuse me. I’m a bad person. An old woman stiffarmed me and said “sorry.” I yelled after her: you’ll die alone, you leathery old cunt. Not interested, said a fat bald man. Like no one will ever be interested in you, you fat disgusting bald sack of shit. I’m in the right here, I reasoned. I’m trying to find a lost child for Christ’s sake. No one will take a swing at me because I’m tall and I lift weights a lot. Continue reading
Sex inventory. Last part of your AA 4th step. You made a list of who you resent. What you fear. Now, the people you harmed with your “Sex Powers.” Instructions are in the Big Book. Page 69.
Dear God help me remember the people I hurt.
OK. Work backwards. Isla who went to jail. Puerto Rican producer chick. Married Mexican chick. I fingerfucked that girl Ariel. Clara the 18 year old Persian who cuts her forearms to feel something and works at Jack in the Box. Gabi the fat toadfaced Guatemalan. Agnes Kwon, that cunt. Before her Isla again, before her Dakota, before her Jill or Jennifer or whateverthefuck her name was with the surgery scar. Continue reading
I should tell you I’m married, she said. This after you’d taken off your expired Trojan, the ribbed kind that comes in a gold wrapper; it was so old the gold foil was flaking off so you took the condom and filled it up in the sink after and watched it for leaks. Your jizz chunking up and swirling around like a snow globe. If you had known you would have just stayed in raw and blasted in her. If you’d known some other guy would pay for it. Her husband must be white too. What Mexican married to a Mexican cheats on fucking Tinder. The plan could have worked out and your bloodline might have lived on. Not now that she waited to tell you. No sense of timing. But we’re separated, she says. Ah well, you were smart after all. Continue reading