Northern shovelers. image stolen from tgreybrids.com
Here is the problem. I truly am addicted to this shit. To sex, to the possibility of sex, to validation from women. Alcohol made me feel good while I was drinking it. But women kept me feeling human for weeks. Months. If I’ve not fucked recently, I’m not a person. I’m not worth being alive.
Once I could get a new one every three months and be OK. Then a week. Now the day after I fuck a woman I might like– if she gets a weird on text the next day I think I’m an ugly freak and no one could ever love me. Fantasize about my lonely childless death. Or while my dick was in one girl, I’d feel desperate about other girls. Continue reading
image stolen from animalfactsencyclopedia.com
I joined Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Day three of no jerking off. No looking at Tinder, OKCupid. No looking at women with lust in my heart. This means: no looking at women. No fantasizing. Which means: do not think about Lara. Our date to the bird sanctuary. Had to cancel. No thinking about her hair her tits her eyes her face. The curve of her jawline and her neck. Her voice. She likes me. I like her. Kind of a lot. She described me as “a staggeringly talented writer.” We share the exact same opinion on the one important thing.
Don’t think about the taste of her hairy pussy sweating in the summer heat. Her squatting over my face while her AC groans and does not cool the room. No writing about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. Sex is the story. There is nothing else on Earth. Birds, flowers, sunsets: go fuck yourself. Money work friends family sobriety service to other human beings: blow it out your ass. I wake up every morning so I can feel hot salty chowder spurt out of my dick. Preferably into the smelly cooch of an emotionally disturbed teen. Every other moment is just labor to support the meat sac that I am so it can fulfill this purpose. Why have a thoroughbred if you just keep it in the barn. Continue reading
They hit 30 and the profiles start saying:
My life is perfect. I just need a man to share it with.
At 1AM her chihuahua woke me up licking the back of my balls. I want to say I thought it was her, waking me with a blowjob. But I knew it was the dog. Been woken up by OKCupid girls’ ball licking dogs about a thousand times more than blowjobs. My life is perfect means she has a dog. Dog job BMW cocktails with the girls. Mid century modern furniture. A hanging copper fruit basket. Books arranged by color. She likes you, she says about the dog. She doesn’t usually like men. Heard this a thousand times. I’ve told a thousand women: the cat doesn’t like you. Don’t take it personally. He doesn’t like anybody. Once in a while he lets them get a palm on his back and I tell them this is exceptional. Continue reading
LA to Arizona to Utah to Idaho to Wyoming to Montana to Washington to Oregon to LA, 7 days. Jesus Christ. Now what. Now I’m back. Jerked off, smoked a cigarette, took a shower. Now eat some chicken; resume normal life. Zion, Bryce Canyon, Yellowstone, Glacier, Wild Horse Island, Crater Lake. Little towns with little newspapers where a new parking statute is their 9/11.Bikers everywhere. Sturgis was this week, and some drag race in Butte. Big fat murderous bearded men and their women with faces like cow grain shoes. Been driving 8 hours a day eating almonds and beef jerky. Jerking off constantly into an old T shirt. Satellite radio back and forth from Willie Nelson’s Old Country Roadhouse to Howard Stern. One minute Loretta Lynn, the next Sal Governale pouching up old jizz in his distended foreskin. Countryside going by like the opening credits to The Shining. There’s an Isaac Asimov story where a space colony needs water for their terraformed planet, maybe Venus. Earth won’t give it to them so they go on a six month trip to grab a mountain sized iceberg from the rings of Saturn. They make it without going crazy by hanging outside the ship in the warm space suit. Stars go by; floating in blackness like sleep. This is what the car is like. Stern on the box and jerking it over and over to the wet underage bikini and jogging shorts cunt cracks you see wading the rivers of our national parks. Miles up a trail behind some fourteen year old’s pinched wedgie ass as she sweats next to her Mormon parents with their ski poles and camelbacks. Or you jerk it to the waitress in Pocatello with the tits, the waitress in St George Utah with her confused Hot Topic sexuality, the waitress in Bear Cock Montana with the black eye. Blonde hair blue eyes Randy Weaver’s daughter types. Imagine holing up with them in a cabin somewhere. Watching the firelight as the snows come in. They like you, these girls. In LA there’s a million like me. Many of them are famous. Out there you remember you’re not malformed.
Good morning. Tuesday. Desperately want to not go to work. Don’t want to go to the gym. Don’t want to write. Just want free money and pussy. Just want to impregnate a hundred teens, have everyone else pay for my babies. Worship me as a god. I just want blimps with 800 foot LED pictures of my face a la Blade Runner humming in the airspace over schools telling kids their highest ambition should be to take my seed and clean my stove and be entombed alive in my pyramid. I just want my face stapled to Japanese junior high muff with the long straight jet black toilet brush textured pubes while I’m fed by enema. Never work never pay bills. I’d still find something to complain about. Continue reading