Some kind of mulatto chick sits near me with big Malcolm Gladwell hair. Pretty. She is reading poetry. So I should talk to her. Hi, what are you reading, I would say.
It’s a poem about how I want to suck your dick in front of these pleasant middle class families on their picnics, about your hot salty jizz rolling in thick spurts across my tongue, she would say. But leave something in your sack to squirt deep into my ovulating young cunt when you bend me over against the Virgin Mary Statue. It’s by Emily Dickinson. She’s wearing black yoga pants and laying back knocking her knees together. Rubbing one thigh against the other. As though anticipating my meatpipe.
And shit: she said hi to me. She wants me to fill her with children. I better say something. This is a message from God. Tinder is down, at the exact moment when a pretty girl said hi to me. But her back is to me now. And what the fuck would I say anyway. That’s some nice lasagna you have there in that tupperware. I see you like books.
Now I can’t even maintain eye contact. I’m an unmanly pussy. My face is getting flushed. I’m fucking terrified. A pretty girl showing interest is the worst thing that’s happened in my life.
OK: you must ask her out. Do it as you’re leaving. Be a normal person. Say normal shit. What is your name. Do you want to get a drink with me. I’ll get shot down in front of this smiling yuppie couple. Their detergent commercial looking kids and their fucking Welsh corgi will witness my ignominy. My voice will crack and my penis will fall off. I will shit myself. The shit will be made of acid and squirt in the kids’ faces. The ducks will storm me and chew off my nuts with their awful dinosaur beaks. I will be mocked and humiliated and my children and my children’s children. Anyway, here goes.