image stolen from conanevolved.wordpress.com
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.
image stolen from 6thgradeliteraturevocabulary2011.wikispaces.com
Now I need pussy again. Even though it hasn’t been long. Barely even fucked the last girl; she got scared and asked me to stop. I reminded her of some past trauma. But it went in. It counts. What was that, six weeks. Already I’m ugly in the mirror. Two weeks off from the gym and my body is pasty and fat. Objectively there’s maybe a three per cent difference. If I’d just torn off a new piece of young ass I’d look within striking distance of Ryan Reynolds, soft bathroom light be damned. Six weeks.
I’m acutely aware of my lack of money, my lack of job prospects, the filth in my house. Cat hair, grease and spiderwebs everywhere. Boxes of old bills and DMV letters I don’t need but can’t be assed to sort through. Fish tank with long tufts of kelly green algae blowing in the filter current. Edges of the cat’s litter box spattered with shit. Taint smelling underwear hanging off furniture like Tibetan prayer flags. When you stop getting laid this shit starts to matter. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. Continue reading
Since it seems you’ve banged a ridiculous amount of women from OKC, would it be possible for you to drop a datasheet/guide on OKC from opener-bang?
Or at least, yoda, just help this young man along, mentor him and pass on your legacy? HAHA
because I get many profiles views, replies, and numbers but I have a hard time turning that into dates. I know all the basic logistical shit and I’m not new to game. can you show me a screencap/transcript of how you play things?
I typically have decent openers, but the replies from women are so banal or the profiles are bare and generic, I have very little to work with. How do go from opener>chatting>IRL meeting. I’m getting phone numbers but having difficulty with getting meet ups.
You’re probably sick of jackasses like me asking you things like this so I understand. >_>
Don’t listen to me. I know nothing. I’ve blown more easy ass than I’ve gotten. What I do get doesn’t make me happy. My OKCupid tricks will not help anybody. The short version is: be me. Then go on a date and behave like me. I am over six feet tall, white*, and not ugly. I am a hilarious genius. Fuck off if you don’t think so. The way to get pussy on OKCupid is to be a tall, not ugly, hilarious genius.
Then again I’m broke as shit and a filthy alcoholic pervert. I make this known. Reading my profile, you can almost smell my broken, hissing toilet. See the house centipede as long as a dollar bill gnawing a fresh log of tuna fish shit in my cat’s litter box. You read my profile and you know that there’s a half empty flour sack sitting torn open in the back of my cupboard, swarming with weevils. I come out and say it: I want to have filthy unprotected gutter sex on our first date and then never speak again. I still get laid. The women are often wonderful. So maybe there’s something to it. Continue reading
Back on OKCupid for a minute. The women have gotten worse. They’re not less attractive physically. But the banality of their profiles has, impossibly, increased. Used to be 90% of women were the “live learn laugh love” people. Now it’s 99% . The if you want to know more about me just ask. The I love my dog, I love my job, I love my family and friends. Everything in my life is perfect I just need the right man to share it with. The anything by Haruki Murakami and David Sedaris women. Radiohead. All music except country. Or all music except rap and country. The PLEASE READ MY PROFILE BEFORE MESSAGING ME I AM NOT INTERESTED IN CASUAL SEX cast into the deaf wind like a prayer to a dead god.
The meaningless Meyers-Briggs letter jumbles. Science’s version of Cosmo’s Are You Good Girl Sexy or Bad Girl Sexy test. I have a kid, I love my kid, you have to understand that my kid comes first. Never I have a kid and I put him in one of those bigass industrial tupperware bins with a bunch of plants when I fuck guys off the internet. I’m hoping it will create a biodome. Continue reading
Six foot fucking four, a surfer, law degree, sometime male model. He has been in the army. They sent him to Iraq, Congo, what he cheekily calls “DMZ” with no further clarification. Every chick in the world then googled DMZ. His profile is perfect. Arrogant as shit but backing it up. Funny. No angst, no real self deprecation. Why would there be. There is nothing wrong with him.
Lives on the coast. Founded and sold a software company in his 20′s. Now he makes his money as a lawyer when he is not surfing with various dolphins and whales. He takes great pains to talk about the whales. But it’s tongue in cheek enough that it doesn’t come across as bragging. He is the sort of person who surfs with dolphins but knows that the sort of person who talks about surfing with dolphins comes off as a fucking dork. He manages to work it in perfectly. I would tell you the exact language, and you’d agree with me. But I don’t want you to google him. Continue reading
image stolen from womenchaseyou.com
Work. Get a job. Get a job so you can get money so you can fuck. Lift weights so you look good enough to fuck. Learn shit, have funny and interesting things to talk about, so you can fuck. Go out so you can fuck, stay in online so you can fuck. Get good sources for drugs, stock your house with alcohol, learn how to cook so your second date can be at your house. Go to parties and spend money and talk to people and who gives a a shit what any of them say unless they’re girls you can fuck, guys who might know girls you can fuck. This is a disease of our libertine society, we are told. Used to be you’d get married young and your first time would be on your wedding night. You’d be monogamous for life. Bullshit. No one ever did that. The men were always fucking something. Hookers, donkeys, little boys.
I’m gonna hang my nuts in a car door and slam it shut. There will be pain, but it will be brief. It can’t hurt as much as a lifetime’s worth of all the stupid shit I do for pussy. The drinking, the drugs, the time spent away from what might be constructive labors. All that shit but especially just being a machine walking around with the aim to hurt human beings. I don’t end up with one night stand type women. No strings attached sex in which both parties are up front feels sick to me. I need to pretend, and maybe even believe, that we’re gonna speak again. That maybe she’s my future wife, or at least we’ll be friends. And then I need to fuck her and never speak again. I’ll get a couple rounds of texts saying “hey what’s up.” They like me, these girls. I’m not that good looking and I can’t fuck for shit. But I have personality. Continue reading
I’ve covered this before, but in case you need further discouragement.