What the fuck is a guy in a band going to tell me about pussy. I need a sponsor who’s also a pathetic nebbish. Someone who only barely gets laid through excruciating toil.
Went to an SLAA meeting last night. You think it’s gonna be like AA. Where you hear a guy saying woke up from a blackout in upside down in my flipped minivan… felt something warm in my face… it was my son’s blood… I crawled to the liquor store… and everyone laughs. SLAA is a bunch of weird old Lesbians talking about getting molested. 3 young Mexican bottoms with baby deer eyes always on the verge of weeping. One old bear who does, admittedly, have great stories about banging sailors on meth. But it’s all weepy shit. I shared. I hate this organization, I said. No jerking off and no looking at girls. I want sharia law to be imposed but I’d find away to jerk off to a woman’s eyebrows. In conclusion: fuck all of you; this group just makes makes me miserable. No one laughed.
Woke up not feeling so bad. Well, I’m agitated. But I was capable of reading Nick Kelman’s Girls. Long involved underage sex scenes without popping wood as hot sauce shit screamed out of my ass. Merely letting words pass through a shallow layer of mind without waking my sex drive. It’s been shut in some corner. A gorilla in a cage, quietly seething, waiting to rip the arms off the guy who comes to put gruel through a slot in the door. What happens when you starve it. Does it just die and go away. I have dreamed of this day.
Think of what you’d accomplish. I feel I like I could conquer the stock market. Crank out clickbait that got me a billion views. I could do all this because: who cares. No point to anything. Without sex no reason to live. So you might as well build an army. Might as well scrape the red phosporus off a crate full of match heads with a nail clipper file, one little match at a time, a hundred thousand times, put it all in a water cooler bottle with a shoebox worth of screws. Do this fifteen times. Put all those in Uhaul. Park it in front of a school. What I’m not inspired to do is marvel at God’s creation. Help the elderly. Be of service to my fellow addict. I just want to beat up crippled people.
I lost my only chance at happiness not going to the bird sanctuary with her.
She was the one. No question. I know she’s the one because of course I would find the one this week. The perfect date lined up with her and then my sponsor imposes Sharia law. Of course God’s plan– out of all the infinite galaxies, trillions of light years of space filled with uncountable organisms living lives of hope, fear, pain– all this was constructed solely to build me up slowly over decades and make me yearn for true love. Then briefly offer me a chance at it. Then pull it away at the moment of opportunity.
Of course I lose it by my avoidable choice. Some bullshit thing like joining a second twelve step program. I could have reversed this up until now just by beating off. I’d be out of the program. I’d have called her and gone. Held hands by the cormorants. Lived a perfect life filling her with beautiful babies forever. But now the weekend’s over. Now I’ll die alone. She’s at the bird sanctuary with another man. He has a huge, huge penis. They’ll have joy that should have been mine while I step on a needle and get AIDS. God laughs.
Well I beat off. To Alyssa. After the AA meeting she started showing me her Bumble messages. She was fucking with some guy who asked for nudes. Her long black hair. She’s fat. Not great looking in the face either. But she’s a woman. Her fat Mexicanness brought to mind the fat 23 year old Taiwanese FOB I fucked two Sundays ago. White cotton underwear, pink rings around the thigh holes, some childish pattern on them. Hot loose slippery pussy with a little tang to it from walking around the park in the heat. Her fat belly under me. My sweat dripping into her eyes and her squirming, shielding her face and squealing with her stupid accent. Alyssa in a blue dress pink panties underneath. Fat little baby hands. She asked me for a high five and our palms touched. Hers was warm. It was over.
I decided in the middle of the meeting: I’m going to relapse. Sick of not staring at the tall black haired girl with the I got herpes from the band tattoos. The tops of Jennie A’s preposterous veiny jugs. Anna M in a little skirt, her tan legs crossed like they could open up any time revealing a tunnel of light and at the end her aging taint. Rachel P in her sheer heather gray cotton dress, little bit of gut hanging like she’s freshly knocked up by the six days of seed I’m sitting on. Listen Alyssa, I’m in the sex addicts thing now. I can’t talk about this stuff with you. Too late. He’d sent 20 pictures of his penis with well thought out composition. She’s proud of how she’s fucking with him. You want my nudes, here you go. Sends some dopey picture of Michael Cera. Do you ever really send nudes, I ask. She says I’m not that kind of girl.
It’s wicked to send pretty pictures and give a sad man relief. It’s virtuous to taunt him. Torture him. Not that kind of girl.
He didn’t want to meet you anyway, I told her. He just wanted to beat off to you into the bathroom sink. I beat off to her into the bathroom sink. Halfway through she turned into the FOB with the sloppy pussy. Six of one half a dozen of the other. I wanted 15 hot ropes but only the first one had any force to it. Wanted to feel like I’d crushed all hope for happiness. My future marriage spattering on the toothpaste crusted drain. All I felt was relief. The nut was abnormally thick and yellow. Took after its mother.
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