Diary: An Actress

I need to jack off, to that chick (REDACTED), whatever the fuck her name was.  She showed up to dinner with (REDACTED)’s parents wearing dark gray yoga pants and when her legs hit the right angle you could see the outline of her vagina.

She is hot.  Skinny, in good shape, perfect bone structure hot.  In her youtube videos she looks merely “quirky hot,” like, her face looks a little fuller and her teeth look like a mouth full of jagged chiclets and she just, you know, looks like the kind of chick you would see across a room and think “that chick is kind of hot.  Maybe I have a chance.”

Then in person it is clear she is the kind of chick with whom you have no chance.  She has that sleek, lithe build like a lemur, or one of those whippet-looking marsupials that just went extinct– the thyalacine.  A thyalacine I want to fuck.

Actress. She is an actress. Not the witty type of actress whom I could latch on to with my superior intellect and impress, but rather, the laid back, into astrology and yoga type of actress, who is basically more primal about her mate selection.  She will date a muscular, good looking dude who has a job tending bar at La Poubelle and rides a motorcycle.  She’s one of this special L.A. class of people who has no job and is preposterously good looking and, lives, you know, I just picture that they hike, do yoga and fuck all day.  They just have hot yoga sex with their perfectly lean bodies and perfect skin, and just the right amount of tan, and white, straight teeth, and perfect bone structure where you don’t have to loook past some flaw of theirs.  There is no flaw.  These people, they’re all broke so they live in houses with one another and conglomerate into huge social circles full of hot, underemployed people, who all meet each other easily and casually at parties and may not fuck right away but can see each other at a couple parties over the course of like a month and think “hey, that person is kind of hot, maybe I’ll get a chance to fuck that person one day.”  And then, you know, that person breaks up with their boyfriend, or you end up talking to them so much at these parties that you can casually ask them out for a coffee– these people can do a coffee date; they are free at three in the afternoon— and then go home while it’s still light out and have hot well-lit yoga sex admiring the other party’s perfect musculature and skin in the afternoon sunlight.  These people are in the Serengetti of pussy. If you don’t get a chance with one wildebeest, another will come along.  I am a crippled old mountain lion living alone on a cold, craggy mountaintop, and if one half-starved deer ever makes its way up to the barren snows I better jump on that shit immediately, for all it’s worth, because another deer might not be coming.