image stolen from rachelcooksthai.com
(This is a selection from my book Hot Naked Tits, which you can buy here.)
We were at dinner. And how’s your dating life, she asked. Well if I like them they don’t like me. If they like me I don’t like them. If they’re pretty they won’t fuck me. If they’re ugly they will. I spend my hours trying to find the prettiest woman who’s just ugly enough to fuck me. I can tell my worth from where the needle lands. But let’s be honest: I’ll fuck anything that moves; I’m an animal; I’ll jerk it to porn where the women look like something they pulled out of the Mariana Trench so why not fuck them in real life. Four months since you left me. I’ve been trying to replace you the whole time. One girl came close; she was 22. Her face wasn’t like yours but she had big tits. She left me too. I was hurting from you and I tried to fix it and now I’m hurting from both of you and the evidence keeps piling up that I’m unlovable. Why won’t you love me. What is wrong with me. I mean, my face, but you always said I was hot– Asian women can’t tell when white men are ugly. And vice versa. One of the few blessings God gave us, in dating. Otherwise, whether we’re loved is dictated by the shape of our skull. Continue reading
Well no. There are day date guys who take girls to coffee and museums. Then there are night date guys girls drink with later. On your night date the How’s OKCupid for You talk happens. I actually went on another date today, she tells you. He was nice. He’s an architect. That text was from him, it says it was nice seeing you today, thanks for coming, I hope I can get to know you better. A nice guy but I just don’t think it’s going to work out. Later she’s at your place trying to pet your cat who wants to be left alone. She’s drunk and can’t read his signals. I’m not usually like this, she tells you. Don’t cum in me.
Asian girl keeps smiling at me and then cracking up. She wants the dick. I could go over and talk to her. But in the 15 yard walk over I’d suddenly become unattractive. The act of speaking to her makes me beneath her. Women don’t want the kind of guy who comes up to them. They want the kind of guy they come up to and they never come up to anyone.
Oh well. What would I want from her anyway. I just want her to bend over and present so I could blast prematurely in her ovulating pussy. Then for her to disappear and raise my mutt bastard without ever contacting me again. What are the odds.
She has acne but she’s wearing florescent salmon dolphin shorts and the leg flops open and you can see her toothpaste colored panties. You can tell she has a fat pussy. Her eyes look like she’s thinking about something stupid. The eyes of a person who keeps track of the fight between Azalea Banks and Iggy Azalea. But no– don’t judge people. How do you know what she’s like. Maybe she’s your future wife. Go over there dude. Or maybe go home and shotgun your nuts off. Then you could think about something else.
Maybe I’ll meet someone at the baby shower. This is the sort of shit my sponsor would tell me to look for women at. The sort of shit that normal men, men who talk like sitcom dialogue, would tell me to meet women at. “That sort of shit drives chicks NUTS, man,” says a balding potbellied actuary who has never fucked a woman after a baby shower. These will be normal girls, accomplished girls with a slight artistic bent who dress well and are friends of friends. That’s how Brown University Mini Cooper driving girls over 28 get their dick– friends introducing them. You should meet Jake, he hang glides and has a great job. My friends, all the girls they know are ugly. Or my friends who know hot girls never invite me places. Why would you.
The girls at the baby shower have boyfriends. Probably someone they met at a previous baby shower. Whatever, just go and congratulate these people on their stupid baby. I want to have kids some day but god help me I don’t want to have a stupid baby shower. I have to bring a stupid baby picture of myself so they can project it on the wall and play a guessing game. Which adult is which baby. God, they will think– what the fuck happened to his face. Wonder if I have one in a drawer somewhere. No, just some diaper fetish hooker’s business card.
image stolen from cafepress.com
Look at you, they tell me. Look at you getting your shit together. Doesn’t it feel good.
Doesn’t it feel good to pay your bills. Finally open the overstuffed mailbox that has stood so long for your irresponsibility. Take out 11 pounds of flyers for the Mexican meat market. CMYK newsprint pictures of a flayed sheep’s head. 69 cents a pound. Fair price but the place smells like a mass grave; there are flies. Leaf through each page of sheep’s heads and weird spiky fruits and economy pack off brand diapers in case a warrant for your death got trapped in there, a letter from your dying father, your car registration, the bill for the overdue registration from your old car with a threatening letter saying the state will garnish your wages. Thing’s been in a junkyard for 3 years. Doesn’t it feel good to do that. To clip your toenails regularly. Wash your dishes clean the fish tank have a stilted 15 minute call with your mother, your father, your uncle. How’s the job going, they ask. How’s the job, the bills, the money, the job the job the job. Doesn’t it feel good to show up to work, to be of service. To make financial amends with your credit card company. With the hospital that charged 28 grand to lance a boil. To track down your creditors, call them, to sit on hold with the DMV, with traffic court. Call between the hours of 8:30 and 11:30 Monday through Wednesday. If you call at 8:29 please call back during telephone hours. If you call at 8:30:005 I’m sorry there are too many people in the queue please try back at a later time. If you manage to dial the last digit at 8:29:57 and have the phone company route your call in exactly three seconds, not 3.001, not 2.999– it took eight days of trying for that to happen. Just to get in the hold queue. Just to be on hold for 41 minutes and then get told they can’t handle this kind of issue on the phone sir, sir, at this time, sir, I do apologize at this moment I am unable to help with your query, sir, I do apologize the system won’t allow it, you need to mail the proof of ownership to blah blah blah. You don’t have the proof of ownership. You will just have to pay to register this old car forever. Fine. Doesn’t it feel good to have shit handled– no. If I’ve paid a bill I have the shit handled once. Before I didn’t have it handled at all. In both cases I still have to handle it constantly, forever, until I die. Nothing has changed. Continue reading
image stolen from wikipedia
I hate my first ex who broke my heart. I hate the girl I lost my virginity to, for then telling me she had a boyfriend. I hate my mother for teaching me to respect women. I hate capitalism. Every job I ever had made me so I could have money to get women. Money isn’t so I can eat, sleep in a building, etc. It’s for women. Jobs aren’t even for money. You just have to have one because women ask: what do you do. Continue reading
Let’s assume I never get laid again as long as I live. What happens. I have no children. Fine. I die alone. Fine. Age slowly, rot; disease, brain turned to mush. I forget who or what I am. Trapped in a state nursing home. Surly orderlies snap my arthritic fingers to get my rings. Shitting myself, fed from a tube jammed in my throat, no one to hold my hand as the pain takes forever to kill me. Each instant containing lifetimes. OK– this exercise was supposed to end in “that doesn’t sound so bad.” Fuck.
Try to hang myself but my bony arthritic hands can’t tie a knot. Wallowing in weeping sores in a hospital bed; I roll out and try to aim my head at the floor but it only breaks my face, my pelvis, thick needles ripping out of my arms…. you lose your ability to move but not your ability to feel… Jesus Christ. A friend from the past shows up; I mutely plead to be smothered with a pillow. He just kicks me in the nuts.
Only way to avoid this is to have kids. Only way to make kids is to get some ass. Right back where we started. Continue reading