What is this girl, texting me– she is nineteen years old and works as a go go dancer at an S & M themed nightclub. She says on her profile that she is looking for an older man. She does not appear to be a prostitute. She has literary pretensions.
What do you even do with this information. When you can’t stay up past ten thirty and don’t even want to. My ball hairs are white. My scrotum looks like a disgusting wizard. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with this nineteen year old go go dancer, it’s that– I can’t even conceive of the logistical hassles to get there. She stays up until four in the morning. It’s like a sparrow wanting to fuck a bat– they just aren’t around at the same time of day. What do I do now, invite her over for the pork roast I’m about to make? A nice hearty meal with some roasted root vegetables while the cold winds blow. Nice glass of red wine and a video. The flavors of rural France. I enjoy the things that old people enjoy, except for the part where I need to impregnate a girl whose professional attire is electrical tape over her nipples.
So it would have to be a come out and meet me at this club situation. Lug my ball sack which resembles Wilford Brimley’s scraggly dome into my car and drink fourteen dollar drinks and talk and talk and talk and wait and wait and wait until fucking time, which, for her, is going to be sunrise. When I am finally about to get that ass, a rooster will crow. Fuck, it’s 3:30PM and I could go to sleep now. I could get the early bird special at a Carrow’s Family Restaurant. I could lean back in a recliner and yell at the news.
She is six feet tall and half black. Cute as hell. Texting me all the time. Maybe she’s just lonely. She is into Harry Potter. Not a half-shamed half-ironic appreciation of Harry Potter that you affect as an adult; the first Harry Potter book came out when she was four years old. She is genuinely into Harry Potter the way a kid is into Harry Potter. Here comes my boner.
Who knows. It’s cold outside; the car is fucked up; I have no god damn money and a hangover lasts me as long as the flu. But also, nineteen. Nineteen.