“And then I lick my armpit and pretend it’s your salty twat.”
Always something annoying going on. Never enough time. Feel pressured; the need to put something on the blog. But this god damn squeaky door opening and closing behind me. This slouchy unlaid nerd walking back to his car with his sneakers squealing. Two maintenance guys up on the deck of the bungalow above yacking endlessly about different kinds of caulk. This new caulk they have now, it holds good and you wouldn’t believe how fast it dries. Now they are joking about caulk. But not the joke you would think. I guess if you discuss “caulk” 5,000 times, making a “cock” joke is no longer funny. But I bet it takes a real long motherfucking time for that to happen.
People walking by with their stupid conversations. Nobody is ever talking about the thing they want to talk about: fucking. Or if you’re hungry, maybe chicken. Some guy walking by having to listen to a chick talk about her god damn career; how well she gets along with her various colleagues. He cannot say “I see your point, and also: you have large titties. I would like to see and hold and touch and suck on your large titties, please.” The only thing he really thinks, he can’t say.
That’s the only thing I’m ever thinking when I’m talking to women. I would like to see and hold and touch and suck on your titties. May I do that please. I would like to sniff your used panties, woman who rings up my hamburger. I would like you to gently fondle my testicles, girl who works in the upstairs office. I would like you and your female boss who is also attractive to lightly run your palms over my naked back and slowly encroach into the forbidden space on top of my buttocks and delicately stroke my ass crack and then flip me over and suck my cock in tandem, is what I would like, please. And, yes, it is also hot outside. You have a point there. But back to the thing I am thinking: I want to bury my face in your hot sweaty pussy and I know you’re gonna be nervous because it’s so hot outside that you think it’s got a little too much musk going on, but I love it. I want the smell to stay on my face for days so I can get hard just by taking a whiff of the air. God did a great job with cuntmusk, because you can’t really wash it off. You can smell a ghost of that scent on your hands for days. It is especially suited to guys whose hobby is playing classical guitar, since the strict nail requirements mean the hand you reach deep into a girl’s musky cooch is different than the hand you jerk yourself off with. You don’t have to keep stopping the action to smell it. I want your cuntmusk to be all over me. I want it to linger for days. OK, you have a nice night too. See you tomorrow.
I would like you to stop talking and come into my bedroom and have unprotected sex with me immediately, every girl I have ever known. I have jerked off to the thought of date raping you many times, and making you pregnant against your will, girl who thinks of me as a close and trusted friend. Any detail you have ever confidentially revealed to me that is related to sex, masturbation, or certain parts of your anatomy, I have incorporated into my fuck fantasies, even if you thought you were being gross or joking. When you talk about a gross shit you took it makes me think about your asshole and when I think about your asshole I think about fucking you in your asshole. If I could date rape you and get away with it– if some genie said go ahead, I guarantee you won’t get in trouble– I’m not saying it’s a “yes,” but it’s not quite a one hundred per cent “no,” girl who thinks nothing of being alone around me while drunk. When the bombs fall and we all turn into Mad Max, don’t think you’re gonna get my clean drinking water for free.
But instead we talk about what the women want to talk about, which is anything else that is ultimately nothing. It’s not even a compromise. If the world were equitable between men and women conversations would be fifty per cent “I would like to see and suck on your titties” and fifty per cent “I joined this kickball league, one of the girls is a graphic designer so she’s gonna make us awesome uniforms, etc. etc. etc.” and everything else. Instead it’s one hundred per cent things that don’t matter and zero per cent the only thing that does matter. And if you ever did talk about the one thing you thought, you’d get thrown in jail.
Anyway, back to work.