I want to chain you to a pipe. Stop taking birth control. Move into my sweaty apartment. Let go of your possessions. Your pets. I’ll ladle water down your gullet. Sop up your waste. You’ll live off fruits I baby bird down your throat as I impregnate you again and again. Build a bunker underground for our hundreds of offspring. With whom I’ll also breed. Continue reading
(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)
No matter how much pussy I get I’m Elliott Rodger. Couples on the street make me sick. Tepid Tinder response means I’m a chromosome damaged power line baby. My mom should sue a drug company. No response means I don’t exist.
Had a date yesterday. I liked her. She’s pretty. Likes the same books as me. She too is a writer toiling in obscurity. Worried about losing her voice in work, worried about time. We lock in on the same sentences in stories. I want a relationship. So I did what my sponsor told me: don’t make a move. Instead I said: I’d like to see you again. Peter Brady voice crack. She said yes but I think she was lying. At the end I gave her a peck on the bottom lip. We agreed to go to dinner this week. I felt like I had no dick. Continue reading
I put my best shit into a book. It’s called Hot Naked Tits. 3 bucks even on Amazon because $2.99 is a dirty lie. Kindle & Kindle apps only for now. If it does OK I’ll have some printed.
What can I say. Go fuckin buy it.
Agitated about this. Trying not to put significance on it. But it is significant. No getting around it. Then again– I can do this now because I’ve come around to not giving a shit. I don’t need the money. More people have already read my shit than are gonna buy the book. A fucking lot of people. I have succeeded. This is gravy. Continue reading
An unattractive woman I don’t like doesn’t want to see me again. I’m pissed. Because she has a perfect pussy.
All I need is one asset. Good face, nice body, nice pussy, nice intellect. Sense of humor, sense of adventure, an interest in Lake Tanganyika cichlids– PICK ONE. Well forget what you can take, my sponsor tells me. Focus on what you give. I got: OK face nice body nice intellect. Sense of humor sense of adventure interest in Lake Tanganyika cichlids. Well read. Minor internet fame, albeit among woman haters. I can play guitar. I can draw. My pecs have a zipper down the middle. My inguinal crease is so cut that when I take a shit a vein pops above my pubis. I can cook. I have a nice place next to a park. Down the street is another park with waterfowl and I can identify them. I know something of their lifestyles. Perhaps this will be of interest. My hair has perfect gray. I’m not short. Not bald. I don’t have big cock but it’s not… the situation isn’t quite clinical. I’m a good guy. Good to be around. People who know me love me. Still. This fat cunt with the one long nipple hair can’t sent me a god damn text back. And I’m too old to shoot up a school so I just have to take it.
I’m sorry but I have to leave early, she tells me. Client in Ventura.
The old man sends a car. When she gets there he prepares a bath with candles. She bathes alone. He busies himself. Sneaks peeks but mostly leaves her be. When she gets out he’ll massage her for a long time. Fleetwood Mac on his fancy stereo. Take her to dinner. Nicest place in town. A glass of wine at home and the car takes her back to L.A. Thousand dollars in her account.
They don’t fuck. Don’t even kiss. He’s just lonely.
She met him on OKCupid, too.
If you told me you want me as your boyfriend, I’d be happy. If I could tell you I want you as my girlfriend, I’d do it. But that would make you leave. Find other men. My holding back is the only way you want me. I have to have other girls to keep you.
Pussy is a corporation. I’m an employee. A corporation gives as little as it can until it’s forced to give more to keep you. How well you do your job doesn’t matter. It’s barely considered. What matters is how much others want to poach you. Whether you get kept and what you get paid depends only on leverage.
She had big tits and she was studying to be a mortician. Her OKCupid was all about death. Guatemalan I think. She wouldn’t fuck on the first date. I fingerfucked her in her car instead. A black Camry or something with a tan or gray interior. Pink panties.
I fucked her on the second date and then a couple more times until we drifted apart. Last I heard from her she was getting married to another tall skinny white man with a large broken nose. He’s into guns.
I still jerk off to her occasionally. The fantasy is that I run into her at the Cha Cha Lounge. Fuck her on top of the dumpster in back. Either she’s sitting on it facing me with legs spread open or she’s bent over it. More the former probably, because of the tits. She wants to get pregnant but it isn’t happening with the husband or she doesn’t want it to, and she tells me to cum in her, to give her a baby because I look like him and he won’t notice.
This is from 3 dates 4 years ago. You fuck 200 girls but get all your jerk mileage from the same five women. Why is she the one that sticks. Why are the others written in water. Which one am I to them.