Weekend Journal: Pussy is the Only Thing

As I was washing shit off my dick with the citrus almond hand soap I tried to feel bad. I couldn’t. I tried to be afraid of HIV; scrutinized my shiny white shaft under the surgical bathroom light for blood. Raw anal sex with runaway meth hookers: frowned upon by the CDC. But I was intact. What’s more, the transmission rate for the– what’s the opposite of the “receptive partner”– the guy who puts his dick in never gets it. I tried to think about hanging myself like I have at least ten times a day for a month. Couldn’t. I tried to picture my dead dad, my dead friend, my dead cat looking down on me from heaven. Shaking their heads at the boy they loved doing self destructive shit. Their ghosts were gone. I was just there in the downstairs shower getting hard again, thinking about eight minutes ago.

I’d been to a therapist. My AA sponsor told me to go. He’s obsessed with getting me over my sex shit now that I’ve not had a drink for two years. Now that I’m a lawn cutting bill paying ordinary taxpayer with a certified pre owned family sedan. Now that my credit rating inches toward normalcy. Now that I talk to my family. Help newly sober dorks. Grit my teeth and tell them how fucking great everything is, now that I’ve done my step work and surrendered control to my higher power. I’m achieving my dreams. Do you know that my second book is out. People like it; it’s not bad I gather but I have no fucking idea anymore. Looking at it one more time is a bridge too far. Anyway I’ve got my act together so it’s time to stop doing the one thing that brings me happiness. Raw sex with young girls.

She’s nineteen. Her parents are Jehovah’s witnesses, of course. The people who knock on your door in suits on a hot Saturday and ask: have you thought about eternity– their daughters will all smoke meth in a San Bernardino County squat. Their sons will build underground porno vaults with 8mm clips of children fucked by raccoons and tortured to death. I’ll say this: she’s spiritual.

Where was I– I was at the therapist to work on relationship issues. With my gold PPO insurance I have this luxury. There were Frank Lloyd Wright chairs in the waiting room. In the office, a tall Pottery Barn water feature. My sponsor told me to go because I want to get married and have kids. He thinks as long as I fuck Tinder whores it’ll never happen. I think if I stop fucking Tinder whores and meet my future wife she’ll look at me like dog shit. I think women only respect you if you’re already fucking someone hotter, and you treat them like garbage. I’m right.

I also think I’ll never meet my future wife. I think if I signed up for a cupcake baking class like people say it’d be ten lonely dudes, two ugly girls. I think if I don’t work agonizingly for pussy every day nothing happens. Most times not even then. If I work for it it’s not love. I’ll never get my princess moment, is what I’m saying. But I did once. I fell in love with a girl from work. Now she’s dead. Everything circles back to my dad my ex my cat and how I’ll die alone. Until today.

I let the therapist have it. Everything in 50 minutes. It helps to write it up for four years, then cut it down and down to where you have every canned metaphor memorized. Great for AA Shares too. People come up after meetings and ask are you a writer. I say no. I want them to feel less talented than some schlump off the street, because I resent their TV jobs.

I told him I want to hang myself. That I think my mom will get cancer. That I’ll get cancer. I’ll get fired and be broke or I’ll never get fired and have to work forever. Never have kids. Die alone. I write; I used to like it but now I hate it from looking at it. I made a book so new people could see my shit but I had to go on fucking Twitter to sell it. Sales still terrible and looking at twitter to sell the book sucked me into our culture: I hate women I hate men I hate blacks whites cops. As a Black Man, Pokemon Go asks me to put my life in danger says Kotaku. Corporate pop culture plus corporate social justice, over and over. I worked in Hollywood when Cowboys and Aliens was about to come out. They thought it would be big. You’d have to sit in meetings with a big grid trying to come up with movies like Cowboys and Aliens. Knights, dinosaurs, robots on one side. Werewolves, vampires, Godzilla on the other. That’s what Kotaku is, and everything else. Just bankrupt.

Kotaku is a multimillion dollar web site. Hacks get paid and don’t have to work. I’m honest and do my best; I sell close to zero books and if anyone finds out about my writing I’ll get fired. There’s that trivial garbage rabbit hole but also I’m afraid I’ll hang myself. Afraid my best friend will hang himself. More people will die and I’ll be alone. Angela will leave me or I’ll hurt Angela. I’m afraid of hurting her with this post. I’m afraid and I’m going to die and nothing I do can help. Well our time is up, he said.

Got out and El Chuco called saying he’d left his car in Rosemead. Could I help him get it. It’s a Tesla. God knows where he got the money but you can open it with your phone. I unplugged it from the back of the Days Inn hooker hotel. Drove it at 110 out to the brothel he keeps in Redlands, now that his wife left him. The idea was one of the girls would take a picture reading my book naked. I’d post it on twitter. Sales would result. He said send a picture with your shirt off so I can get the girls hot.

I wasn’t going to fuck anyone because I Don’t Do That Anymore. But I showed up and she was cute. She was bent over snorting an eight inch rail of coke off a rose gold Macbrook pro and I laid my cock between her ass cheeks and stroked her back, slipped a finger in her, picked her up and put her on the granite kitchen island counter after moving the pickle jar. She could move. We switched to the futon. She got on top and I had to tell her slow down I’m gonna cum too fast. The whole thing’s on video. Except the part where I look ripped picking her up.

Upstairs in her room she had a plate of coke, hash, crushed up oxy’s, xanax and molly. I’ll say this for AA: I didn’t think about touching it. Big shard of meth sitting on the Bank of America folder that had the mortgage papers for the house in it. Perfect hex crystal like a display at the natural history museum. If you want nineteen year old girls in your house, get drugs.

Later I was in the hot tub and she came out naked. How did you get over your sickness she asked. I read your book. You were crazy. Now you seem OK. How did you do it. When did it happen. Messengers from God everywhere. She sat on my lap and talked about trying to figure out her place in the world. Sang me a nice song while I just looked at her. She was perfect. I just want to touch you so I can remember you, I told her. You won’t, she said.

At night she led me back to her room and kissed me and my mouth went numb. She got on top of me and moved. Put me in her asshole and I just liked looking at it. As soon as she got going I sprayed a corn silo full of goo into her sigmoid. I said goodbye. Cleaned off. Ubered to my car. Drove home, got on livechat with Amazon.com to complain about a package.

Now this morning. I have a reflex to go to that dark place where I want to die. I can’t get there. It just stops. The sun’s out and the trees hiss in the wind and I want to live, go to dinner with my mom later. Drugs didn’t work. Therapy doesn’t work. Money, service, friends, family don’t work. This works. I’ll never stop.

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 The Pussy

Tags: pokemon go