I have a date tonight. 38 years old. Look at her profile. Half Asian with excellent bone structure. But who cares. What am I gonna do, have kids with her? One quarter Asian kids with half a good looking face? She’s 38. Biologically useless. Fucking her, as productive as sticking my dick in a log. Plus she’s banged 10,000 indie rock bassists no doubt. Has herpes and the bad kind of HPV. The log it is then.
Still, she guards herself like her pussy’s a treasure. Habit. She disputed my choice of date venue. Jesus Christ, you’re 38. Whatever I say you say yes.
A 19 year old could tell me: to get a whiff of my cunt from 50 yards out, you must climb a high cold mountain harried by buzzards. At the top spend one night in a haunted house. I’d say sign me up. But19 year olds– you say El Prado, they say yes. Or they don’t have ID; you walk around the duck pond then fuck. See them again or don’t. They’re happy. 38 year old makes you crawl across nails. Interrogates you off her checklist. Things she dreams of in a man, which you’ll suffer for other men not providing. How do I know you’re not just looking for sex, she asks. Even I won’t know until I nut. If I did I wouldn’t tell you.
Am I just looking for sex. Yes and no. I’d love it if you were a wizard who made me laugh. But even if you’re a bore– if you said: want to go bowling and fuck, no man replies just bowling please.
Don’t you know how men are by now. How can you not after fucking us for a quarter god damn century. Thousands of us. You tasted the grizzled wangs of bartenders and bassists, senators and sewer scrubbers. Teenage twinks and haggard mummies wheeling oxygen tanks. There’s not one cute woman in LA who hasn’t racked up Wilt Chamberlain numbers. How can you do all that and not learn one thing about men. Or you unlearned what you knew. How does the 19 year old know more than you. She knows not to make me pretend.
She was the most physically perfect person I’ve ever seen. Half Nepalese half Danish. But I admired her like you admire a painting. No smell to her. She’s a human rights lawyer. A woman who knows what she wants. Not afraid to say it. To her credit, she also knows it doesn’t exist.
She checked her watch. I’d seen a blue crowned night heron at the pond across the street. But instead of taking her there I asked: drive me home. She parked. Want to come in, I said.
Are you being serious? You can’t tell me you’re feeling chemistry here.
No. But you’re hot. I feel nothing but I could push through it. We’re doomed but I’d still like to masturbate into your unfeeling carcass. How about it.
I’m a man who knows what he wants. She said no and we parted amicably.
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