image stolen from en.mercopress.com
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.
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.
image stolen from cultofandroid.com
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
image stolen from boingboing.net
Go do this right now. It’ll take 30 minutes:
1. Open your profile. Get your photos in order. Put your 3 hottest pics from facebook on top.
2. In “details,” add 2 inches to your height and give yourself a $20,000 raise. Like every other dude.
3. Cut and paste the below essays. Do not edit. In “About Me,” add the name of your town. If you’re a girl, change “cock” to “pussy,” but– you’re not a girl. Get rid of “I’m Really Good At” & “I Spend A Lot of Time Thinking About” if you already have them: Continue reading
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They were laying in bed. He had her ipad on his lap to watch Conan the Barbarian. Golden Age Schwarzenegger had fled across frozen wastes. He came upon a hut. A woman with 1982 plastic surgery stood in the door. Do you not wish to warm yourself by my fire?
I’ve been unfair to you, she said. He paused the movie.
I shouldn’t even tell you this but I forgot my texts come to that fucking thing.
Well I didn’t look. But now you better tell me.
It might hurt you.
… Continue reading
image stolen from musicblogfunpartytime.wordpress.com
Let me pitch you an idea.
We’ve set a date. Your doorbell rings. It’s me. I am dressed nicely. Perhaps holding a bouquet. Peonies– nothing too suggestive. You approve of my shoes. You’re like “Hi!” And I’m like:
(BEGINS BEATBOXING “TOM SAWYER” AT INCREDIBLE VOLUME, ROCKING OUT LIKE AN ASTEROID IS ABOUT TO HIT THE EARTH AND PERFECTLY– I MEAN *PERFECTLY*– PANTOMIMING NEIL PEART’S FILLS)
And you’re like “wow, that’s pretty impressive! Would you like to come i–” and I’m like:
(VOCALS KICK IN AND I JUST GO OFF IN GEDDY LEE’S CANADIAN GRANNY VOICE “MODUHN DAY WARRIUH MEAN MEAN STRIIIIIIIIDE….” MEANWHILE I AM STILL PERFECTLY PANTOMIMING THE DRUMS)
And you’re like “holy shit, you’re really good at that, should we get goin–” and I’m like
(DUH NUH NUH NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH AND I JUST KEEP GOING THROUGH AN EXTENDED SYNTH SOLO AND ETC. You get the idea. Meanwhile the neighbors have come out and you’re maybe a little apprehensive but also, you can’t resist feeling the music in your bones. Beginning to move. Shake your head. Dance in the only awkward way it is possible to dance to Rush. When it finally ends you are exhausted. Dripping with sweat. Spent. But changed. From this moment you will live each day as though it were you last.)
The song finishes. I hand you the peonies. Turn around and leave silently.
How about it.
I want someone to reenact Frazetta paintings with, basically. I in my burnished brass codpiece, chiseled deltoids rippling as I swing a double-bladed fire axe at a demon spider with sixteen cat eyes. You, astride the rampant beast in chains, nude but for a tattered bikini and a seal fur cloak that conveniently blows aside from your breasts and crotch in hot winds stirred by a distant alien volcano. Your buttocks could be credibly described as “meaty orbs.” My eyes speak of hellfire and lust as I land the killing blow. The unholy death shriek of the beast echos against the jagged black crags in the middle distance. Three moons look on. With another heave of the blade I split your chains. You are free, but your heart is my slave. I look around, furtively. I need a rag to clean off the stinging spider ichor. There is nothing. We are wearing virtually no fabric. I shrug, and we bone anyway.
How about it.