This Motherfucking Guy

Six foot fucking four, a surfer, law degree, sometime male model. He has been in the army. They sent him to Iraq, Congo, what he cheekily calls “DMZ” with no further clarification. Every chick in the world then googled DMZ. His profile is perfect. Arrogant as shit but backing it up. Funny. No angst, no real self deprecation. Why would there be. There is nothing wrong with him.

Lives on the coast. Founded and sold a software company in his 20’s. Now he makes his money as a lawyer when he is not surfing with various dolphins and whales. He takes great pains to talk about the whales. But it’s tongue in cheek enough that it doesn’t come across as bragging. He is the sort of person who surfs with dolphins but knows that the sort of person who talks about surfing with dolphins comes off as a fucking dork. He manages to work it in perfectly. I would tell you the exact language, and you’d agree with me. But I don’t want you to google him.

Astrid messaged him. He got right back, said he’d come over. He asked her about her childhood sexual abuse and they acted it out. Her dream date. I hate both of them. I mean, she is in her thirties with kids and she can reach out to any man on Earth and say “let’s fuck” and he’ll get in his car. It’s a bitch, but this is normal for women. Spoiled rotten cunts. But him. Him. He is the man that can do this. There are thousands of women who can do it. Millions. But just the one guy. At least, one guy who isn’t famous. My bad luck that he lives in my town.

A man with the options of a woman. Great looking, athletic, rich– good on paper, and in the flesh I am told. I hate him. I hate him desperately, in my bones. I hate him the way a mama possum hates a mountain lion as she’s watching it eat her babies. A genetic hate. A Darwinian hate. As though his mere existence castrated me.

I hate him even more for the fact that I would like him. She had kids, she told him. She would have to get them out of the house. I hope they’re teenage girls so I can ransack their panty drawer, he said. Exactly as I would have. Or no, my version was the hamper, the musky ones in the hamper. Funnier with the detail, I thought. But it hit me that his is the better version of the joke. More economical. Fuck. God dammit.

What do I have, what do I have. At least I’m not a lawyer. That’s something. Instead I make fucking cold calls to the managers of refrigerated warehouses in fucking Fontana. I have a stupid web site that nobody reads and a face like Harry Dean Stanton in the 70’s if he took the sharp edge of a shovel to the bridge of the nose. I never commune with whales. I have neither founded nor sold a software company in my 20’s. I will not found or sell a software company in my 40’s, in my 50’s– fuck, who knows if I’ll even make it that far.

He has antique cars. His “You Should Message Me If” slyly, but not cruelly, eviscerates the cliches of women’s profiles in Los Angeles. He sounds like a woman, complaining about the sexual come-ons he receives. He is funny. He teases the girls. But never comes across as hateful. Why would he be. What has he to hate.

He fucks as many people as she does, she tells me. An unholy amount. He has everything, and he uses it for exactly what you’d use it for. Being near whales and getting pussy. I hate him. And I hate her for fucking him. For even being able to. She should have to be a model, a surfer, a lawyer too. Nope. Like Patrice O’Neal said: just have a pussy. Harrison fuckin Bergeron will come right to you. Seventy seven cents on the dollar doesn’t sound so bad now, does it.

I hate and envy both of them. Her just a little bit, for having it easy. Mostly him, for existing. Hate, envy and awe for this magnificent and perfect creature.

Must be how a woman feels, seeing a hot sixteen year old girl.

Tags: patrice o'neal, whales