Weekend Journal 8-19-12: The Demon Cocaine

19 Aug

I was supposed to go to Six Flags with Nikol and her kids today.  Instead I slept on my couch naked, sweating like fucking Kunta Kinte, with chunks of bloody scabby snot oozing out of my nose onto my white pillow.  When I woke up I had to pull a beach towel off me; it was glued to my belly with snot and jizz.  Five loads worth.  They are redoing the floor in the apartment above me.  Installing hardwood flooring.  Or rather “hardwood flooring,” some kind of interlocking veneer that you put together like a puzzle.  Thin planks that will resonate like guitar tops as my neighbors stomp stomp stomp all over them from 6am to 1am.  Nobody who has ever lived above or below me has ever once gotten eight hours sleep in a night.  It’s always some biological anomaly like Da Vinci, sleeping for 20 minutes and then waking up to engage in some crazy engineering project involving huge heavy slabs of wood and metal.  Manic geniuses building a 1500’s helicopter.  The floor crew began work at 9am just as the speedy coke was finally permitting me to start to doze off without my jaw chattering and long strings of thousands of nonsense words running through my brain.  They hammer a floorboard in once every minute and a half.  Tap tap tap tap tap.  After about five of these they use some kind of growling screeching saw or sander in a two second burst.

The artificial vagina is still sitting in my drawer.  It is the best artificial vagina I have ever made.  The meat of it is one of those donut airline pillows you put around your neck.  I knew, when I received this airline pillow as a gift from my grandmother, that I would never use it to support my neck comfortably on an airline headrest.  I knew I would be lashing it to a bunch of other weird shit and lubing it up and fucking it on cocaine.

The airline pillow is sculpted into a  shape more closely resembling a mons pubis and buttocks by fastening my old neighbor Heather’s bra that she left here around it, with the cups in the back. I miss Heather.  She would come over drunk once in a while and I would get her half naked and give her backrubs.  Heather was good about leaving her underwear here.  Girls, I want you to know that I appreciate when you do this.

Anyway, Heather’s cup size is perfect for sculpting a donut airline pillow into the approximate shape and size of the tiny ass cheeks of the fetish porn model I met at the art show, whom this artificial vagina was meant to stand in for.  I then dressed the ass shaped pillow in  pair of panties I stole from the laundry room, inside out so that little storage compartment that girl’s panties have was facing out,  you know– that little flap of fabric that makes hole– what is that for, maxi pads?  Couldn’t be.  In this case it was for putting an unrolled condom filled with Curel® Ultra Healing Intensive Care™ Lotion for Extra Dry Skin into it, taking care that it was stretched out securely enough and adequately lubed so it wouldn’t just deglove onto my penis when I was fucking it.  Then I tucked the  I Rub My Duckie® Waterproof Vibrating Rubber Duck Adult Toy (Black) into the crack in the donut pillow, threw it on the floor, turned the duck on, and put my dick in it.  Heaven.

Of course I didn’t cum that way.  I came by tugging on my dick with my hand like every other time.  But, cocaine.  I spent four hours building various versions of this thing and thinking about how I was gonna fuck it while fantasizing about the fetish girl. The girl in a diaper.

I thought the night was going to turn out different.  The plan was, I was gonna meet up with this girl at the Standard pool party that afternoon.  The girl with the spiky brass bra from last time.  My pickup line was “you look like if the Road Warrior gave me a boner.”  We ended up making out all sloppy in the pool.  Texted a couple times since then but never got together. But it was ass in the bag.  She took a bus for 90 minutes out from Venice to meet me.  Nice girl.  Pretty girl.  21 years old.  She was wearing this kind of Laura Ashley looking floral bikini top and high waisted shorts outfit. 21 years old. She was born in the 90’s.  Sweet chubby titties.  I was “on.”  There was nobody else I knew at the party at first but I was on and made friends and I was charming and we had fun talking cruelly about the bodies, outfits and tattoos of various women.  I kept buying drinks.  We were getting drunk.  The pussy had eluded me last time because you can’t go to a party at one in the god damn afternoon and stay drunk all day and expect to keep macking on the same chick and keeping her in the same place with you. She had ended up going to a bunch of bars with her wastrel friends and inviting me out but I am thirty six years old and had been drinking champagne for six hours in the sun and I just wanted to take a fucking nap.

But I knew she would have fucked me and these days that’s almost enough.  I feel like I’ve fucked every piece of ass in the universe and none of them are going to show me something new.  I need to have sex with new women to prove to myself that I am not a worthless ugly loser who has completely wasted my life. So the box was kind of checked with her.  But we kept texting:  I’m at this party, I’m at this bar, why don’t you come out. Ass in the bag.

We made out and I threw her around the pool with my big gym arms and held her ass and ground her little cooch into my pool boner. It was gonna work out; the logistics were handled this time.  I had another house party lined up near my place.  Another pool party.  Sceney shit.  She was trapped in my neighborhood thanks to L.A.’s inadequate public transit infrastructure. Get drunk, party, fuck.  Easy as pie.

Except you drink fifteen tall drinks at a place where cocaine dealers are lurking around and you have a big wad of cash in your pocket because your checking account is drained and all you have left is that other savings account for emergencies from the small town bank of your hometown in Massachusetts, and you have withdrawn more than is necessary so as not to repeatedly pay the two dollar fifty cent withdrawal fee from the Standard’s off-brand ATM with the cartoon ATM card  who tells you to press this button para Espanol– these conditions are met, you are going to score cocaine.  Got a sixty dollar gram off a guy with a gold grille.  It tasted like laundry detergent.  Literally, it was like snorting Tide, even though the rock he gave me was a beautiful shiny flaky nugget that could have been on the cover of Better Homes and Cocaine magazine.  Whoever made this fake coke rock should have a job counterfeiting great artwork.  But it was Tide.  We kept bumping up anyway.  There was some coke in it.

When you have coke, lots of people come around and hang out with you.  Sometimes they are smoking hot women.  You are up late with them blowing lines and talking and drinking.  But you will get so jaw-grindingly coked out that either you’ll just yap and yap and yap endlessly or you’ll get too high, go into that soulless swimming-headed haze.  We brought a bunch of people back to my house and it quickly became the latter.  One of the guests was a smoking hot chick.  I began to realize that my plan to fuck my party guest was going off the rails.  I had done so much cocaine that there was no way I would be able to get a boner.  Instead, she would go home somehow and I would be left alone to compulsively masturbate for four to six hours, until the sun came up and made my apartment into a bright boiling gargbage-smelling sauna.  Fair enough.  I began to study the smoking hot girl intently.  I had her add me on facebook.  I was going to masturbate to her later, and I would need photos and memories to do so.  She was on ecstasy.  I had her try on my silk smoking jacket, which people on ecstasy enjoy.  This was so I could smell her on it later; her dirty sweat.

We tried to go tho the second party but it was a bust.  Instead we went to this thing downtown; an art show with fashion people we were told.  We were afraid we would be the least fashionable people there.  We were the most fashionable people there.  In the elevator some old timer black guy was talking about how a girl upstairs was wearing nothing but a diaper.  I was curious.

The art sucked and they ran out of beer but I did find a guy with a handle of hobo vodka who would trade a bump for  a pull off the bottle.  The party girl wouldn’t take one.  This cemented that it was over.  But there was a girl in a diaper.  Beautiful little blonde girl who looked like she was six years old, peddling some bullshit at a booth for her artist friend.  Standing in a little T shirt and bare legs and a big white diaper.  It was the most erotic thing I have ever seen.  Party girl took a pic of me with her.  I knew, once I saw her, that the smoking hot ecstasy girl had been kicked off the jack roster.  The night now became how fast could I get home and jerk off to the girl in the diaper.

But we had to go to another party.  In the warehouse district.  It was some hip hop thing.  They were playing films of asses jiggling shot with slow motion cameras.  I wondered if the models knew they were going to be shot at 2400 frames per second or if they were just told to shake their ass for a minute and clap their butt cheeks together.  I hope one of the robust black prostitutes was told what the project was and  said “ooh, like on Mythbusters!”

Past a point, I couldn’t take it anymore.  The girl said she’d found a ride home. I found a cab.  The driver was Somali.  I asked him what it was like to chew qat.  He said it keeps you up for five days at a time, never hungry.  He went into a very long and detailed description of the feeling of chewing qat.  I realized it was the exact same thing I was feeling at that moment.  The active ingredient in qat is the same as in bath salts.  Maybe that’s why the coke tasted like detergent.  No matter.  I had a quarter gram left and I blew it all while painstakingly constructing the vibrating artificial pussy.  Trying different angles.  Making it perfect.  Google image searching fetish pictures of the diaper girl off the name on the card she gave me, and other diaper porn.  Fucking  my artificial pussy.  Failing to cum.  Finally beating off into my snotty beach towel as the sun rose, and again and again and again until a crew of overweight heavy-booted Mexican laborers arrived to hammer and saw and thump around right above my head.

In my mind’s eye she is peeing in the diaper.  I have it open, but she is peeing in it.  Oops!  We will have to clean her  up. I wipe her down with baby wipes, gently clean off her asshole and pudenda, sprinkle some fresh baby powder on her and place a nice clean diaper under her white little bum; then climb on top of her and push into her, push two strokes into her and cum.  Who knew I would be into this shit.

9 Responses to “Weekend Journal 8-19-12: The Demon Cocaine”

  1. sylviasarah August 19, 2012 at 8:03 pm #

    Did you really block out your own face? And, because I wouldn’t have a flaccid penis to worry about, I’m going to try coke one day. I’ll need to find a silver tray first.

  2. Pea (e-mails..) August 20, 2012 at 8:18 am #

    diaper fetish..wtf
    quite the night you had though

  3. Anonymous August 20, 2012 at 12:20 pm #

    i dont think thats an appropriate outfit?

  4. nikolhasler August 21, 2012 at 10:43 am #

    I left my panties at your house once. I did it on purpose, even. You returned them to me.

  5. Phuk Yoo August 23, 2012 at 8:53 pm #

    What the hell is that lavender thing you are wearing???

  6. lolcopterpilot February 18, 2013 at 9:32 pm #

    Dear Sir,

    This post made me sad. But then I remembered: David Vitter was re-elected for a second term in the US Senate, and the DC Madam died of “suicide.” Now I don’t feel anything.

    Very Truly Yours, I Remain, Ever,
    a fan

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

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