Just Stroke My Butthole and Tell Me How Great I Am

6 Apr
happy day for you

image stolen from backpage.com

I had a Tinder date but I canceled and went to get jerked off at a whorehouse in Rosemead. I’d heard it was a hooker town. I was there already, for Alcoholics Anonymous’ General Service Area 5 Assembly All Districts Pre-Conference Committee Workshop… the real title’s even longer but I stopped reading. It’s two days long. You sit at a table with ugly old men with white nostril hair. Discuss how AA can reach more psychiatrists and clergymen. The girl was pimply and probably 30 but she had big Chinese titties. Ass like she deadlifts regularly. And she wouldn’t even jack me off.

She drizzled hot oil on me and stroked my ass crack and inguinal crease for an hour. When it became clear that she wasn’t grasping at my angry red penis in its little sheet tent I asked. She said eef I do that I go to jail. Instead she swabbed my balls with her palm while I jerked myself off. Cupped her cinder block ass in my other hand through her knockoff Juicy sweats. White terrycloth.

Cops cracking down in Rosemead. God forbid a man gets what he wants. But then who cares about a handjob. She tickled my oily asshole. Told me I have a nice body. I can’t believe you’re 40, she said. I do have a nice body. I do look fucking good for a middle aged weirdo who’s smoked for 20 years and did black tar heroin under the freeway overpass with homeless wife killers. I know this but need to be told. Dates never say it anymore. They’re too busy with I’m not usually like this. Have you been tested. Shut up and savor my magnificence.

The date– she was a student of Hugo Schwyzer. She’d have fucked me. I could text her now, have her come out to the duck pond. But I don’t want the hour of talking before my apartment. I don’t want a date and I don’t want a hooker either. I need girls to want me but I’m sick of dancing. Only ones who come right to your place are mannish pigs built like Artie Lange. Giant sweaty pubic fat pads with razor bumps.

Even this would be fine, if I didn’t have to chase it. But Vladimir Harkonnen makes you message first.

What do I want. My mind wants a smart girl like Nikol. My body wants a 15 year old who picks rice, cries because deek too long. My heart wants Angela to tell me I’m sick of these other guys. Let’s buy a house in Montana and you just fill me full of children. I’ll stop sending cunty texts that I’m leaving you every time I have PMS. Maybe she’s right, it’s ending. We’ll be friends. She’ll marry a rich guy. Too bad. You turn 40 and start making a little dough, your dad dies, your cat dies, you realize the only thing that matters is taking care of someone else. At that moment there’s a pretty girl in your house. You want to take her out to a cabin in a meadow somewhere. The smell of her neck makes you want to merge with her on a cellular level. Forgive everything. Work hard make money change the tires and cut the grass forever if she was just there and it sure feels like it was meant to be but it isn’t. Nothing’s meant to be. The universe isn’t even cruel, just random. And you lost. The work hard part will be there. But the coming home to someone: you’re fucked. Now and forever. Your kid’s college fund money chopped up into eighty bucks after tip until they pass some new sex trafficking law and then to the robots. Plus she’d bug the fuck out of you after 3 weeks. Who are you kidding.

I’ll never be a young man again and soon I’ll be dead. Let’s face it: I have nothing to live for. I exist because my sudden death would make other people sad. I’m of service to other alcoholics who are probably lying and using me. Showing my letters to the parole board. Having me meet their rehab counselor so they can get checkout privileges and go smoke speed. I’m alive to not ruin my mother’s life with my suicide. I’m alive to contribute to the tax base by working diligently until my body is broken. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. And now my watch begins– and it keeps fucking going and going and going. At least the Night’s Watch can suck each other’s dicks. At least the rent’s free.

Shit’s bad, then it’s good, then it’s bad. It all doesn’t matter. You can attach feelings to anything. Money, women, food, body image, whateverthefuck. I have more money than I’ve ever had. I feel poorer than ever. I’ve gotten better pussy than any man on Earth. Young Vietnamese girls coming over fucking me raw for hours and then moving in because they like my stupid web site and non-best-selling ebook. The unsurpassable pussy dream. Now I fight for an obese Mexican to let me get a middle finger in her yoga pants after a walk around the duck pond. Doesn’t matter.

Wherever I go would be a prison. But even as I’m typing the feeling passes. It’s enough to go out back, see the grass toss in the wind. Hear the hummingbirds. Their crazy one note flute chirp like blowing in a tiny bottle. Didn’t know hummingbirds could sing until I was 40. Imagine what else is out there. This is enough to live for. To see even one bird, one cloud. Know for one moment you are part of God’s creation. But Jesus Christ do I need some pussy.

16 Responses to “Just Stroke My Butthole and Tell Me How Great I Am”

  1. stonerwithaboner April 6, 2016 at 10:20 am #

    “The date– she was a student of Hugo Schwyzer. She’d have fucked me. ”

    Hey man, ya probably dodged a bullet…

    http://jezebel.com/5987888/if-you-want-a-more-thoughtful-boyfriend-try-pegging-him

  2. Cletus April 6, 2016 at 1:39 pm #

    You dumb cunt. Stop blogging and put all your energy into the novel. You’re welcome.

  3. Aurini April 6, 2016 at 3:05 pm #

    I feel ya, brother. Always darkest and all that, though. But then again, I suppose it could get a lot darker.

  4. Lee Witt April 6, 2016 at 8:19 pm #

    Dude, you can flat-out write. When I read your stuff it reminds me of Bukowski and Harry Crews. Keep it up.

    • Liar liar April 9, 2016 at 3:08 pm #

      Don’t lie. We all know you haven’t read anything from Bukowski or that other one.

      That would require the ability and willingness to read a book.

  5. americhandotcom April 8, 2016 at 5:01 pm #

    very good poast cheers to you mate.

  6. Bush Dindu 9/11 April 8, 2016 at 8:37 pm #

    Did she tell you how great you are in broken engrish or what.

    I feel like this recent piece could have been funnier. Punch up the text a bit. People like punchy ballsy writing.

    At least share the name and/or address of this Rosemead massage parlor so your readers can know to avoid the place.

    • delicioustacos April 9, 2016 at 10:11 am #

      I’ll never be a young man again and soon I’ll be dead. (Seinfeld bass line kicks in) Let’s face it: I have nothing to live for. (Laugh track) I’m alive to not ruin my mother’s life with my suicide. (Urkel swings the door open as I hesitate with the noose around my neck. It knocks the stool out from under me. As I spasm and choke the beam I’m hanging from collapses and I crash into Carl’s prize collection of rare orchids)

      • Commentor formerly known as Ben April 9, 2016 at 3:46 pm #

        To which Urkel exclaims, “did iiiiii dooo that”

        And of course Urkel dindu nuffin.

      • anonymous April 19, 2016 at 11:47 pm #

        yeah but dat azian puss tho…

  7. Rico April 10, 2016 at 1:26 pm #

    1) Awesome! That response to the comment that it should have been funnier was really funny!

    2) This is what you must do. Marry.

    Why do you need this? Because you are old, life seems empty, you need something to live for. You are ready for the next evolution. The frequency with which your writing has mentioned wanting to fill someone with kids has exploded upwards over the past year.

    How can you get this? Easy. All women are essentially the same. You know that better than anyone. So just pick one and marry her.

    And the choice is not between Nicol, a 15-year old, and Angela. You do need bits of each–but we’re not trying to pick superwoman here, just someone good enough.

    You need someone smart enough for you not to climb up the walls (not that high a bar…you just need a non-idiot–anything above average will do); you need someone to whom you are attracted (she must be at least cute and have a decent body); and you need someone who basically smells good to you not bad (doesn’t have to smell as perfect as Angela, just has to be in, say, the top 25% of all your conquests in terms of the compatibility of your skin chemistry).

    Women are terrible in many ways. But you need one. To bear your children. Which is all the meaning we can hope for in this life.

    And here is the secret. While feminism and modernism have largely destroyed women, they are still meant to be wives and mothers. When you take a woman as your wife, that changes her. Women are much worse in the dating market than they are once they are in their proper station. So a lot of the things that annoy you about random chicks (they make you talk to them first, they want to trade up to a better guy, they care about your car, they don’t want you to think they are sluts even though they are, etc. etc.) will be less of an issue with your wife. Becoming a wife fulfills them. They want to do it well. So they become less of a pain in the ass. Choose wisely, of course. But again, top 25% will do it. The top 25% of potential wives have the capacity to be GOOD wives, even if they are annoying when they are navigating the Tinder world.

    One final thing that might be nice is someone independent enough or passive enough to let you set limits so she doesn’t consume you entirely. You still need time to write. Don’t let her ruin that. Just set the frame early on that and you’ll be fine. And, if you find monogamy intolerable, there are ways around that one as well. You’d be surprised what wives will put up with. Unlike us, they are motivated by more than sex.

    If it doesn’t work out, get divorced. Who cares? You have no assets anyway. And you’ll be happier having a kid in this world than not. And as a masochist, you’d be happier being heartbroken and bankrupted by some harpy wife than staying in this limbo forever. And as a writer, you need this experience. The really dark male writers are all divorces, not never-marrieds.

    It’s time. Go get ’em. Find someone young…I’d say 28 or younger. Your seduction techniques may be unorthodox and nihilistic, but they are HONED. You could EASILY land some good young wife material. Most men don’t even know how to get laid. And half of THEM end up with sweet wives. And the more experienced and charming men are on the whole less marriage minded these days (with good reason). Which reduces the competition. Just find some cute elementary school teacher, seduce her, and propose to her.

    So. That is your assignment. Why have you not done this already? Here’s what you tell yourself: women are bitches, you are a loser, and you’re destined to die alone. Here’s the real truth: you are a hopeless romantic so you pine for impossible perfect love or for uncatchable girls like Angela, you have a consumer mentality and you can’t choose the flavor so you sample each one, you are scared of real emotion so you protect yourself with promiscuity and used to dull your senses with booze.

    So tone down the romanticism–don’t act like a chick. Don’t try to find the perfect girl. Don’t try to change Angela. And remember, there are no soul mates. Women aren’t wired to be your soul mate and business partner. They can’t give you what you want. But they can give you what you need. But hold on to enough of that romantic side to do what you clearly want and need to do–get a girl, get her pregnant, and raise those delicious tacos! And, as a writer, you need this experience. This is the new step. Do it.

    And, I don’t want to hear any feminist bullshit about how you are damaged goods, you could never subject someone to the darkness that is you, etc. etc. Most American girls are destined to be cat ladies. Save one. They need kids even more than you do. All wives are bad wives, all husbands are bad husbands. You’ll be better than many. And maybe you smell good to her. “Protecting” your future wife by not marrying her is not noble, it’s cowardly.

    To counteract your consumer indecision, take this deadline. You will be engaged by Christmas. I don’t care if you have to get turned down 19 times before you get a yes. Start proposing.

    Finally, three last pieces of pep talk:

    1) Remember how shitty your competition is. Most American men can’t get laid. Most American men never went to college. Most American men can’t write a paragraph. You are fine. You are in the top 25% of marriageable people yourself. Depressing as that may be. There are tens of thousands of girls out there who would be good for you and who would agree to marry you if you charm them. Do it.

    2) Get out of L.A. if you have to. Go on a road trip. The south, the midwest, the small towns. This is your number one priority now. Not money. You’ll never make any real money anyway, and you never cared about it either. So if quitting your job for the 9 month wife-hunt is what it takes, do it. If you have to keep the job, just use your current pussy hunting hours as wife hunting hours.

    3) Pursue parallel paths. Go do some seductions without reference to Delicious Tacos and your copious levels of experience with the opposite sex. At the same time, write a few posts on here about how you are now wife shopping. This site has served you well in attracting girls, sometimes interesting and edgy ones. Even the edgiest ones, deep in their hearts, want to be married.

    Are you in?

    • Luigi Boy August 26, 2016 at 6:55 am #

      your reply is gold Rico, I felt as if you were talking to me too….

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Just Stroke My Butthole and Tell Me How Great I Am – Manosphere.com - April 6, 2016

    […] Just Stroke My Butthole and Tell Me How Great I Am […]

  2. The Fleas | delicioustacos - July 12, 2016

    […] get on my computer at night. Leave nasty Amazon reviews. Comments on my web site. Punch up your writing more, they tell me. Listen faggot– you go write some shit. You could practice […]

  3. Diary: Grab Them by the Pussy | delicioustacos - October 9, 2016

    […] that part of my budget goes to you. And it’s hard to get a hooker these days. Old Chinese women just give you a shitty massage. They won’t jack you off anymore. Plus I […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: