You live long enough, you see women you know, and whom you want to fuck, and about whom you think in the back of your mind “some day… some day, I’m gonna catch you on the one day when you don’t have a boyfriend and we’re gonna be drunk and FINALLY I’m gonna fuck you….” you live long enough to see them age past the point where you want to fuck them.
It happens in your thirties. For most of your life as a man, you think about fucking women exactly your age or younger. Starting at about twelve, when you begin to think about sex and romance in a concrete way instead of just getting a boner from two orang-utans fucking on National Geographic, you have crushes on girls in your class. This is who you beat off to. Then you get a couple years older, say fifteen, and you are beating off primarily to fifteen year olds but also to the well-developed middle school girls, like, you notice that one has precociously big tits, you know. Whereas girls older than you are physically larger and more imposing; their jaws have a certain squareness… but as you catch up to them and grow yourself, they start making you horny. And so on into your twenties. As you get older, the range of what you can beat off to is expanding. Because thirteen year old girls are still hot, but now twenty year old girls are, too.
“Every Girl I Know” writes, and says constantly:
“I’m afraid after I have kids it’s gonna be a hot dog down a hallway.”
“It’s for real, roast beefy. Like, the inner lips are way too big. That shit looks like it’s been chewed on. Fruit leather.”
“I’m insecure about the smell, taste, and appearance of my vagina and blah blah blah endlessly.”
Image stolen from Flickr user “OrangeCounty_Girl”
(Originally posted on Yelp.)
I must say I like the lack of personal interest the clerk at the Royale Junior Liquor Market has in my purchasing habits. I mean, he may not even notice– he’s working at the type of place where he’s in front of a giant wall of Old Crow pint bottles and novelty skull and pistol shaped fifths of tequila, behind three quarters of an inch of GE® Lexan™ bulletproof plexiglass. He faces a large shelf of pornographic DVD’s specifically tailored to the prurient interests of working-class Mexicans, whose bright eye-catching covers leave nothing to the imagination. Shit is distracting. He has more things to worry about than my weird unnecessarily frequent and expensive daily purchases of small bottles of alcohol. He has to stock nine different kinds of non FDA-approved herbal pill packets designed to enlarge your penis, give you bigger and more meaningful erections, enhance your sexual desire until is as that of el tigre. He has to eyeball stumbling drunk day laborers as they come dangerously close to shoplifting a Payday; ward off these miscreants with merely the shaming power of his gaze. He has to vigilantly head off customers steering toward the inoperable ATM machine in front– he clearly prides himself on sparing them a useless button push and confounded few seconds of bewilderment– “Hey! Is not working.” The ATM is never working, but the giant glowing sign telling the public that the store has an ATM is always working. Continue reading
Just going to work should be enough. Just having a job should be enough. Going in there ten hours per day. “Networking.” Reading work related material on weekends. All the absurd time and energy demands of any “professional” “career” type gig in 2012 are more than enough of a burden on a human being’s brief life.
But you gotta pay the bills. You gotta register your car. You gotta serve jury duty. You gotta do your taxes. You have to go to the doctor, and sit in the waiting room, and fill out insurance forms which you have already filled out many times. You have to go to the doctor again because the first doctor never knows what the fuck he is talking about. No general practitioner on the entire god damn planet is ever of any use whatsoever in terms of diagnosing, treating, or curing disease. Always has to be the specialist, which you have to go to the general practitioner so you can even get told to go to the specialist. Find the specialist covered by your insurance plan. Call the specialist, make an appointment with the specialist. The specialist, like every other professional and business, is only open at the exact same time as you are working; you will have to take the time off of work. This does not mean that amount of work goes away, mind you. There is no one “covering” for anybody at work in 2012; productivity is maximized; man hours are stretched tight as a drum. You will need to do this work in off hours, still ailing from what the specialist was unable to diagnose, treat, or cure, because it turns out all doctors are completely useless. If you are a doctor, fuck you. Call the insurance company about the bills you got from the general practitioner and specialist, argue with them; get put on hold, get hung up on on hold, call them, get on hold again. The toilet is broken. Call somebody to fix the toilet. They only operate during normal business hours. Wait for the guy to come fix the toilet.
I started telling people I was a falconer.
Not even in a “game” way; I just got so sick of the fucking question. I just spent sixty hours “doing” what I fucking “do” and now I’m trying to enjoy a beer in my hairsbreadth of free time and you’re making me think about the merciless glare of the computer screen; my cruel, sniveling boss; the phone constantly ringing with bullshit every two god damn seconds so that even in my dreams I hear the bleating of that ringer like the call of some horrible demon bird. It’s the first question boring people ask every single motherfucking conversation and it’s rude. So I gave them a bullshit outlandish answer as a way of telling them to fuck off for even asking.
But the girls always believed me. They would get excited and intrigued and ask engaged follow up questions, way more than they would about my actual job, which is as a weenie Hollywood “development executive.” Even though my real job is supposed to get you laid (it does not). So I kept padding it out. I am genuinely interested in falcons. In raptors at large. Nothing delights me more than seeing a kestrel alight on a fence post. Than seeing a mating pair of goshawks performing aerial acrobatics together. Where I’m from seeing a red tailed hawk waiting on the phone lines for a squirrel to get run over is a red letter day so the embarrassment of riches w/r/t falcons, hawks, owls and eagles here in SoCal has been a great boon to me. I would regale the girls with knowledge about these birds. Continue reading
I’m not short. At least I’m not fat. At least I’m not bald, although if I ever start going bald you better god damn believe I will have plugs planted in rows like a freshly planted cornfield. At least I do not have clinical micropenis. Merely an average sized white man’s penis, which in the face of inflated penis expectations due to pornography and only guys with huge dicks ever feeling comfortable showing their dicks, feels like clinical micropenis. At least I don’t have AIDS. At least I don’t have herpes. At least I don’t have adult acne. Or anything that needs to have “adult” in front of it. Adult ADD, I don’t need to use adult diapers, etc. At least I’m not out in the street wrapped in 6 parkas swatting yellow jackets away from my collection of malt liquor cans, hypervigilantly guarding my hoard of layers and layers of plastic grocery bags wrapped protectively within still more layers of plastic grocery bags from the watchful eye of the government.