I don’t care that it’s Valentine’s Day, but god damn do I need some pussy. They say go out, you know, maybe you’ll meet some lonely girls. Fucking bullshit. Whoever tells you to go out on a certain night and it’s easy pickins has never pulled a piece of ass from a bar in his life. It’s like the people who tell you to join a class. You idiot, you sign up for a six week cupcake baking class and you show up and it’s all dudes thinking there are girls there. And I already know how to bake a fucking cupcake. Or the people who tell you look for a girl with a common interest. I’m interested in fucking. If girls were out there advertising this common interest I’d be balls deep right now instead of writing this.
The idea that going out on any particular night gets you pussy is bullshit. You gotta go out habitually. One out of every ten nights something will happen, if you’re lucky. Everything in life is like this, fail and fail and fail and fail and try not to let failure get you down. And then finally you find one, you take her home, six minutes of bliss. Life has the return of a minimum wage job. So you better enjoy the work. You better have a real passion for extracting coal out of subterranean rocks.
I’m going out with Astrid. I could fuck Astrid, but– old pussy doesn’t count unless you’re real drunk. I need the validation that comes with convincing a new person to have sex with me. And there isn’t a farm of prospects floating around that I might invite out; it’s a cold one night stand or nothing. A hole in one, so to speak. Because, you know, a vagina is a hole. A cold pickup with a woman I’ve never met before, leading to a one night stand. The K2 of fucking.
And she can’t be too old. She can’t be too ugly. She can’t be too fat. She can’t have a boyfriend. She has to be in the same window of eighteen to thirty five year old single women with clear skin and not over-pronounced jaws and small noses and less than thirty per cent body fat that every other sadass lonelyass hornyass man on the planet is looking for. The odds that I will even meet one of these women tonight are infinitesimal. Then I have to talk to her. The odds that it goes well are, well, not infinitesimal, but, no one bats a thousand. Then we have to get drunk together and I have to take her home and fuck her without any tiny subatomic thing going wrong. These are about the same odds as a nineteen foot chicken descending on a stairway from the sun and anointing me the new messiah.
And yet it’s happened. Not the part with the chicken, I mean. The fucking. I’ve had one night stands before. And now I can drink and stay out late. I’ll have Astrid with me, who can talk to girls. Men meet with such instant hostility and skepticism from women; they see us all as hucksters. Jehovah’s Witnesses ringing the doorbell. And of course they’re right. A woman can go up to another woman and violently grab the back of her neck and start making out. Maybe Astrid will help me. Just as likely she’ll fuck me up; she has no concept of game. She’s a missile.
You can go out and chat a girl up and get her phone number but who motherfucking gives a fucking fuck about phone numbers. That’s an audition for an audition. You’re gonna call and either she’ll remember that you suck or you’ll remember that she sucks. No. I want to fuck, and I want to fuck tonight.
God dammit, why wasn’t I born gay. I could be on Grindr. You find someone who’s near you on your phone and you fuck them. Maybe it’s not as big an ego trip then. Maybe that’s what “meaningless sex” really means, you genuinely feel nothing. Even my most meaningless sex is deeply meaningful. It validates my purpose on the earth and affirms that I’m not a hideous retarded Quasimodo. Fucking keeps the demons at bay. I need some god damn pussy and no matter how many times I jerk off it won’t stop. Thank God there’s booze.