She makes me cum too fast. I can’t be completely honest about her because she reads this, but this is one thing she already knows. Fucking on that couch; it’s hot, my balls keep slipping under her ass on the sweaty leather and getting squashed but it’s pleasurable. Her ass is just wringing out my distended sac, and it makes me pop off in two seconds every time. I want to say: let me take a moment to reel in my dirigible sized nutbag so your sweaty ass doesn’t keep rubbing it in the leather; this is what’s making me prematurely ejaculate, but– how do you ever say that sentence. I can barely even type it.
But also because she is twenty two years old and small and not on birth control. Just the smell of the back of her neck. Just the smell of her. Laying around my hot apartment for two days without showering. My bed is awash with her twenty two year old ovulating cuntmusk. I wish it had been fifty days and we lived in god damn Nigeria. In some malarial swamp where she would sweat more. I wish she would eat Indian food and go jog up a mountain in the one hundred and eight degree heat and then wrap herself in layers and layers of every piece of clothing I own under a heat lamp. Twenty two. There is no faking it. This is the thing that billions of dollars and millions of man hours of science are trying to recapture; white bunnies getting their eyelids ripped off in stacks and stacks of wire cages and sprayed with chemicals; people getting their faces slashed up and pulled back like Ed Gein, soaps and lotions and perfumes and hours of grueling tendon wrenching excercise. All to approximate this: the version that God made.
And, you know, a nice, interesting girl. She brings movies over and it’s not the motherfucking Notebook or whatever version of The Notebook is out now; it’s some Das Weisse Band by Michael Haneke, which– how did you know I needed a deep unsparing look at the moral rot underlying a German farm village in 1913. Or it’s the Eastern Orthodox Armenian version of The Holy Mountain. I have learned about Armenians. Their religion is weird as fuck but man can they train a horse. She brings something to the table.
It’ll go wrong. She’s a sex addict. She emails dudes asking them to fuck. Then she writes about it. I don’t know where yet but some day I’ll read about my own small penis.
There is something empty there, something hollow. I don’t know what it is. She’s bulimic too. All my hot sauce is gone, doubtless used in some purging ritual. And I’m sure there’s whatever else comes with the Microsoft Office Suite of broken girls. You fuck up somehow as a parent and all that shit comes preinstalled. But so what. Nikol is like that; Fake Girlfriend is like that. All the girls I know and love are like that. I’m like that. Trying to fill a hole. And of course, not only the literal unprotected hole of the hot young Vietnamese college student who propositions you for sex on the internet but also, you know, a figurative hole. In my soul. I’m gonna fill that hole with the pole of my soul.
It’ll go wrong or I’ll just flake off but so fucking what. Some day I’ll be dead but I still floss regularly.