image stolen from pinterest user nativo411
She was in Mexico and she’d left him. He’d bought her a plane ticket to visit him. She said extracting money from men made her feel love. He acquiesced. Then he said a mean thing on the internet. She read it. I don’t think it’s a good idea to see you anymore. Take care, she said, on Whatsapp. Above it her picture smiling like the sweetheart of Sigma Chi.
What to say back. You don’t mean this. You’re crashing off ecstasy, off coke; you’re drunk and fucking some meathead but you’ll remember you love me when you’re back.
Or: fair enough, give me back the plane fare money.
Or let it hang. Always the best answer. Say nothing. Let her fight it out in her own head and come back to… what, the truth? No, this was a woman.
But she was different.
She was leaving him or not. Either way, fine. But the first time a girl says goodbye is a fakeout. Responding makes you look weak. Buying into her world which she knows is crazy. She wants you to not take her bullshit. But I want her bullshit, he thought. Don’t leave me. I want her to be with me in my bed while the cold rain shakes the trees outside my window, I want that to be happening now instead of her being in Mexico with some 2d tier city stockbroker listening to his jaw shiver as he yammers coke talk about the Dave Matthews band or whatever Texas finance people talk about. Big game hunting. Church.
He got on OKCupid. Sent 20 messages as welcome as an Adobe Flash update and one that stuck. He’d wanted a break from this but now a firm hand was needed. She had a body like a fat little boy and her teeth were planted by a drunk. I don’t want to sleep with you, she said when they got back to his apartment. No one does but somehow it happens. She was 20; her cunt was dirty; she’d been out drinking and hadn’t showered in 36 hours and he knew he’d be smelling his left hand jerking off for days. Nature accepts no substitutes. He went to look at Whatsapp with the feeling of just having fucked new pussy. Her message still hurt. I’m sorry, he texted. Then erased it. Then he called her a retarded cunt and erased it and then he had to drive the 20 year old home. They all live in Koreatown now.
What’s the worst case scenario, he thought. She never comes back. What you had was nothing. Or worse it was something and you ended it hurting her. You let it hang, you’ll never know. Text back I’m sorry. Text back: donate the plane fare to the retarded cunt foundation. I’d say make it in your name but that’d be redundant.
She’ll get over it when she gets over it. Women are like the weather. All you can do is get under a roof. You’ll never see her again. This was your last chance to feel something. She’s pretty but that’s just inconvenient. Every rich prick on earth chases after her. She’s compelled to be with them like me with the college girls, he thought. But they don’t have what we have.
But what if they do. What if she has 20 men she shares herself with and there’s enough to go around.
She believed in God and helped disadvantaged teens. She did coke and fucked married men and got rape me drunk four nights a week. She was a good writer. That alone, impossible. What did I lose it for, he thought. I didn’t mean anything bad. He’d written ten things calling her a cunt and each one got a text saying: I loved it. But the last one didn’t have the little hook. The bit about this is why I love her. It had a title with the word “pussy,” ensuring many views. People like to read fuck cunt pussy.
She never loved me. She was just bored. Now she’s not. You can have her as long as she doesn’t have a better offer. Or a job. Her own money. A Nintendo. A dog. A Netflix show she likes. You can have her for as long as she’s desperate as you while everyone offers her everything. You need a woman so damaged she drives everyone else away. A woman as lonely as you. You need a retarded woman, he thought. A woman who had her legs chopped off. Not an inspirational one who runs marathons on carbon fiber sticks either. A woman with chopped off legs who’s miserable. You need Terry Schiavo on full life support; spoon her pureed butternut squash, watch her squint trying to comprehend Dora the Explorer. She’d still find a better deal. Good luck out there, he texted, and erased it.
Now she’s not coming and I could text her back but it’s gone too long. Anyway she’s getting fucked in Mexico, he thought. Good luck out there. I must admit I’m half in love with her. More fool I.
delicioustacos 
They *do* all live in Koreatown now.
Do they think it’s safer, or is it really that much cheaper? I’ve never seen one of their places in Koreatown that wasn’t a shithole.
The last girl you fell for told you openly she wanted you for sex but had her fiance for a relationship because he had more money.
This one tells you openly that she’s been paid to visit the US by rich guys and that she will sleep with them (and that poet).
Who else have you fallen for, pre-blog? Is there a pattern? If there is, and it’s a bad one, are you going to do anything about it?
I’ve an amateur theory. I think you’re attracted to stupid relationships because they gives you good writing material. When disaster befalls me I think, at least I’ve got something to write about. Maybe you’re doing the same thing but, consciously or unconsciously, you’re being a bit more proactive.
I hope he fucked her in the ass before she went to Mexico to fuck some coked up artist of some sort.
When I was 22 I was going out six nights a week and getting white boy wasted- Coke, extacy, meth , liquor and weed- at the same damn time. When I was 32 I chilled out and got wasted once or twice a month. This chick is far too old to play like she does no matter how good she looks, you do not get that wasted at 34 if you have a vagina, she has not matured or she is dealing with unresolved issues in her life , or both.
You cannot save her, she doesn’t want to be saved. She does not want to feel shit, she wants to be numb to the world- I cannot help but notice her pain, she can’t notice her pain because she is wasted. Please don’t try to save this girl, she is in a spiral. You just stopped falling yourself, try to break her fall and she will drag you down with her.
For the record she is getting wasted right now on another dick, her nose is running and the watery snot makes her upper lip numb. She just polished off a bottle of vodka and her third bender of the week is just beginning…….
Yep, sometimes life is just so unfair that it’s unbearable. Here’s a woman who has the semen of half of Latin America running through her body and soul, and yet I pine for romantic days in bed with her, snuggling and giggling while with the rain stings the windows and lashes the frightened, shaking trees.
Next week, some other dork will be in bed with her, snuggling and snorting as they gaze out the cabana window while the rain . . . etc.
Hm. I just do not understand why my relationships don’t work out. Maybe it’s the rain?
Her heart belongs to El Chapo!
It’s funny; you dispense all this sage advice that Readers lap up
yet you swing & miss at the same curveball. Rick Vaughn has AIDS, dude.
You should never fall in love with butterflies, they are hard to catch and always flutter off to the next flower.
I would advise you to let her go and fuck more housewives. That’s all I’ve got.
Stay miserable. It reads very well.
Didn’t she say your writing is her legacy? So she fucks in trade for an early obituary. Or maybe a late obituary to her long-expired peak fertility. Each man has his utility, and the wanting webwriter can be her bard and write songs which will be sung in the great halls or perhaps in the brothels.
Every dollar extracted a pledge of fealty to her divinity; every word extracted the same. The payouts bring love… of self. Only love of self, because there is no being who matches her greatness.
The blog resembles an elaborate facebook page, where “I had the best Appletini” becomes a grimy yarn. And a whore so sophisticated that her work can’t be called whoring is too sophisticated for a simple facebook or instagram or other peasant mode of trophy case. That’s for the girls that bargain through taxi windows at night, or worse yet those who go out with guys for free. No, someone so next-level is owed a biography, and it should be written by others–talented others.
Legacy of the Holy Whore, by Leroy Stout
Prostitute. Over 30. Mexican. Mudfish. A superfecta at the Tijuana donkey cart races, where they paint the donkeys up like zebras. The grandstand at the shabby track is but a few rows, but a few rows too high–precarious as it was even when newly built–and each row painted unfortunately in its own garish color (authentic mexican artisanal craftwork); and behind it squats Lupe, who in her time–which was the 70s or perhaps the 80s, who can remember?–was one of the vagrant brown-mallards who frequented the herd of sweaty trannies and powder-caked sores and bottles of dregs with a corrugated roof that passed for a bar, which cropped up under many forgotten names on a rolling basis due to ongoing gross violations of the strict Tijuana municipal health code. Lupe and the other trannies looked oddly round and square at the same time, in shiny rhinestoned costumes befitting grade school princesses and ballerinas but sized-up for bearded off-brown dwarves, in a cloud of perfume or is it bathroom cleanser, splendid and odious. The chain of events that landed Lupe behind the mexican zebra race today–the race known locally as “el paseo de las putas” –was undoubtedly a constellation of stars, but on this day there is not a vaporous trace of the special and unique moments she spent with customers of every age, breed, and disposition, rude interludes in shanty rooms, the sound through barred windows of cowboy booted mexican pimps punishing runaways. Lupe had been the consummate professional when she got the drug mix right, didn’t laugh at a small or soft cock nor gag on an old grey one and she would adopt a proud countenance when proclaiming that she’d never intentionally farted in the bar, but her line of work was not only the sacrifice of her soul but also the forsaking of love, and even the hardest whore has a feeling when the drugs wear off, so she indulged in moments of love within the envelopes of unaccountable ether that open when business is personal. But Lupe’s mind is blank these days, save the constant thrum of various discomforts; those special moments are gone, if they ever were at all. And the tiara is thrown out with the bemudded bedsheets. From a sowbug’s viewpoint, as Lupe squats behind the grandstand in a skirt that maybe used to be white, evidence of a botched operation amongst other things reveals that Lupe is a rare individual whose deformations on the physical and spiritual planes are proportional. Lupe grunts like a man a few times then stands up and walks off without wiping, and there on top of a poor sowbug is an unnaturally colored lump amidst gnawed mayonnaise-paprika corn cobs and chicharrones debris; and smeared in this Nachos-del-Diablo is a winning ticket: a superfecta.
“I love it. Leroy is doing both of those bitches a favor.”
–Real quote from Andy Rooney on Legacy of the Holy Whore by Leroy Stout
what the hell is a mudfish