She’s still in the shower. I just learned Hepatitis C is not transmitted sexually. Per the Hepatitis C Association, which I may now have to join:
- Couples with one HCV positive partner had a 2.5 per cent transmission rate over 20 years of unprotected sex
- HCV is not found in semen or vaginal fluid
- Sexual transmission may be a factor among MSM (Men who have Sex with Men)
So you get Hep C if you fuck men. Your dick gets cut by his dry ass. His ass gets cut by your dry dick. But I fuck women. Therefore: call me sushi, I’m goin in raw.
A woman emails you because she likes your web site. Mexican with a luscious ass and her face is perfect, her skin is perfect. She’s in town because the man who invented (REDACTED) paid for her to fly out and suck his grizzled rich elderly cock. He and the wife are separated, he says. But plans have changed and instead of the house I got you a nice hotel.
This is her modus operandi. Rich men who make computers and spaceships take her out. Try to get her drunk on $3,000 bottles of wine. Promise houses and boats. I’m telling you this so you know how hot she is. I’m telling you how hot she is so you know how great I am.
Perfect face perfect teeth perfect eyes perfect pussy. Get her drunk have her sleep next to you. She knows you might have Hepatitis C. Might. Agrees you probably don’t. In any case she doesn’t care. But you can’t fuck her. It would be unconscionable. To hurt someone even if they want to hurt themselves. I don’t care if I die but dear God don’t let me take some poor girl with me.
You might have hepatitis. Or a bile duct blockage. A parasite. You might have cirrhosis. You thought you had pinkeye and a hernia so you went to Cesar Velez MD to get eye drops and be told your gut pain was nothing. But your piss test indicates a liver problem. We hear hoofbeats, says the doctor, we do not think it is a zebra. It is horses. The horses for this symptom are: colitis, liver stones, hepatitis C.
But, ahh,… the hep is pretty rare, right? I mean–
That depends. Have you had unprotected sex?
I’m a 40 year old man with a job and I brag about barebacking hookers in the Philippines. I go to bed at 9 so my Tinder dates are daytime. Walks around the duck pond. Meet at 1PM. By 2:30 I’m watching my chest sweat sting her eyes as she squirms under me, every time. Never use condoms, ever. Actually– once. She insisted. After I’d been digging her out raw and sloppy in the unseasonable September heat. Relishing how my cock would stink after. You use conn-domm she said in her Full Metal Jacket “shoooooot… meeeeee” accent, which would have made me cum too fast so I grudgingly put one on. It just trapped her chlamydia laden pussy juice against my dickskin. Rough latex shredding the twat I’d already soaked in a truck tank full of my AIDS laden precum. In fairness, she was more afraid I’d get her pregnant. I told her I was going to.
The girl extended the rich guy’s airline ticket so she could come up from Orange County. Sleep in my filthy apartment sight unseen. Because she likes my work. Suck on that, Jonathan Franzen.
She lost her virginity at 15. Raped on a club dance floor. He didn’t get all the way in before he came but she got pregnant. The miscreant was never found. Biologically, he lived the dream.
She waited three years for the next guy. A TV star was in town. For a segment on exceptional teens. The network paid for his personal assistants and his personal assistants wrangled his exceptional teen pussy. He sent a car for her. He’s still on the air. I like his show. Less now that I know he used a condom. They still talk.
She married a rich guy but left him when she found his laptop. Investment banker. Big international deals. The sole purpose of these deals was to go to places where you can fuck 12 year olds. Entire economies are built this way. No other reason for Goldman Sachs to be in Cambodia. Third world money comes from horny fratboys impregnating child pussy. While you’re there, in the five minutes you tear yourself away from a squealing ringworm-infested meatpile of pubescent human beings sold to you by their mothers, their sisters… here’s a loan for your oil pipeline. Here’s a credit swap for the president’s cousin to invest the proceeds from de-nationalization of the national forest. 50,000 acres of teak becoming Suharto’s personal property, or Sukarno, or whoeverthefuck it is now. Some grinning squinting goblin whose grandfather played ball with Kissinger.
He bought a slave in Honduras. Shipped her back. She found a picture on his phone; toothless mother smiling as the girl held a suitcase with a bow on it. The girl would clean their house and then bend over. He’d leave $500 in the microwave. He got bored with her. She had to become a stripper. On his phone, long wounded text exchanges. You don’t understand how much I hate what I’ve had to do, the Honduran said in startlingly good English.
She found his laptop with a spreadsheet rating every teen hooker he’d fucked all over the planet. I assume he used color coded conditional formatting. I do.
In the morning her tinder had 20 matches. 20 messages. 10 super likes. 9AM, radius one mile. Of the 20 one was good looking and had game. He made me jealous. The rest: hi, how are u, u are hot, u make me hot, let me meet u, let’s meet on your terms, an arrangement, ill do anything, why won’t u talk 2 me. Doctors lawyers CEOs, #founders and #entrepreneurs. I get on her phone and message with them. Just got in town, I tell them. What kind of doctor are you. What is the most common cause of abnormal liver tests. Will it kill a 40 year old man. Ur hot, they reply. Why won’t u see me.
I have to finish this piece but I’m distracted now. I want to go in and fuck her. Spread open her golden ass cheeks and tongue down her asshole. Perfect like the rest of her. Symmetrical as a typewriter asterisk. Pull my face back and leave two shiny smears of pinkeye ointment. She’s ovulating tomorrow. Keeps track on her phone. My cycle is 26 days like a clock, she says. You could cum in me and it would be safe, she says. She’s doing the math wrong but I consider it. The intent would be to fuck up her life. Make her move in with me and wash my dishes. We’d have a good baby; she’s good looking and smart. Stays in touch with her family. I consider it with her like with every girl. Think about it right up until my orgasm comes on. I’m about to fire in her up until the very last millisecond. Then spray on her navel. If I catch myself, admit I’d never follow through– I’ll never cum. I could talk her into keeping it. Life would have some purpose. I could stop being like this.
When I walk down the street with her I want other people to see. I look at her facebook and her friends are like this too. Flawless. All divorced, rich husbands. Big settlements dwindling down to 0 because they spend it on psychics. They get flown around. The men own sports teams. They’re in the process of separating from their wives but for this weekend I got you a hotel.
Listen: I might have hepatitis C, I told her. It’s fine, she says. I didn’t come here to fuck you. I like your work.
Maybe this is a sign. Let’s just be with each other as human beings. We have a talk, a real talk. And then we lay on the couch and watch a film called Shame. A man plummets into ever-worsening acts of sexual degeneracy to escape a mysterious abusive past. It’s raining outside. I fall asleep with her warm back on my chest and the smell of her hair. When I wake up Michael Fassbender is getting blown by a guy and then his face is fucked up, possibly from hepatitis C. Film ends on a cliffhanger. If he continues his addiction he’ll lose his only human relationship. He’s on the subway. Has a choice to chase a chick or not. Cut to black.
We go to bed. I wake up at 3am and we’re both naked and her perfect ass against me. I’m raging hard. And I can’t, I can’t; it would be unconscionable. This is a moment for me. She was sent by God to break my sex addiction. I am not a bad person. I do what I do but I’d never hurt someone else. This is wonderful. Perfect. Having this girl here who I meant to fuck, not fucking her. Just knowing her as a human being. Letting her be less alone in the world. I’m one of God’s creatures, capable of love. In the morning she showers. I have time to google hep C. I push her on the bed and peel her towel off and cum in one minute.
The old guys on her Tinder. Always in Tour de France gear. Kayaking. Arms raised atop a forbidding crag. I’m still a man, they insist.
The guy with game blew it. He had one good line but now: thirsty message after thirsty message. No other way. Girls just get carpet bombed. There’s no being coy. Hanging back, making her chase you. If you don’t constantly send thirsty message after thirsty message you’re not at the top of her inbox. You just disappear.
They don’t need you. Rich men, handsome men, men with cool jobs– doesn’t matter. It could be Barack fucking Obama. We’ve crossed the rubicon. Not even fame will save you. You must pay for additional Super Likes. Max them out every day. When you get one grudging match you must send epic poems of nutcrushing longing one line at a time. All day every day in hopes that the one moment she looks up, yours is on top. In the future men will dance around on fire burning money and ululating, for the one in one thousand chance of a slight eyebrow raise from a 6 with a BMI of high normal. If she’s Asian he’ll have to catch her eye while assassinating the president with his bare hands to get half a head turn. Merely curing AIDS or cracking interstellar travel– forget it.
Meanwhile my liver tests. It’s what, the 7th now. Ovulation day. Results on the 15th. Eight carefree days of waiting. Thinking about surgeries, pills, procedures I’ll need. The cure for liver ailments is they open you up and implant crawling sea urchins, probably.
She’s still here. After we fucked last night I felt something. Contentment, connection. Like it was from God. She felt it too, I can tell. Some pheromone. She’s ovulating. I didn’t cum in her but close. One drop maybe. Wait for the test on that too. If I didn’t slip I’ll be half disappointed. I am not a pleasant man at all.