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. Continue reading
My new collection The Pussy is out. Pay for The Pussy, own The Pussy, put The Pussy on a pedestal, etc.
Now I’m thinking about her while she’s not thinking about me. Has not ever thought about me. She’s thinking about video shoots that guys from bands invited her to, while I’m thinking about her. Cool interesting people are inviting her to swimming pools. I’m buying unnecessary trash bags at Target to get out of the house.
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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. Continue reading
photo by Terry Lucas, via flickr creative commons
It’s over between us, she says. She’s mad about this thing again. Where are the girls who don’t dredge up old shit. Just because it’s time; you haven’t fucked up in a while. Girls who don’t make you prove it. Girls want you to love them but not so much it’s clear they can do better. Listen: I love you, cunt. Leave it alone.
I’m tainted by the the manosphere. I think it’s a “shit test.” My internet peers hate women but just want a wife and kids. You stay home I go work. Saturday I cut grass in the cul de sac while you occupy yourself with weaving. But women work now. Jobs pay half as much. We have the same money but the work just multiplied. And besides you’re fat and you hate me so I might as well just jerk off into other people till I’m dead. A bad belief system but what else is there. Continue reading
Tell me you love me. Come see me, stop drinking and start going to bed at 9PM, get over your need to be with rich guys; stop fucking douchebags and doing cocaine but don’t ask me to stop fucking Tinder cretins. Live in my apartment like an appliance. Be a refrigerator for my dick. A dishwasher for my balls. A garbage disposal for my ideas. Tell me how great I am and that my chicken is delicious and then leave. Come see me and stroke my ass like the old Chinese lady who jerks you off at the shady massage place but do it for free and let me beat you at Scrabble. All you have to do is be pretty. And want nothing, or want so little that what I have is enough.
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. Continue reading
The last thing I haven’t given over to God. Women. I’ve surrendered work money emotions friends family… everything. Go out in the park in the morning, hear the wind hiss in the leaves. Know that I’m a puny mote in the universe. All will be taken care of. Or it won’t. And I’ll die. And it won’t matter.
But women– there’s no let it happen. I’ve been waiting 40 years for fucking reverse Cinderella to come knocking. And– well shit, it happened once but, a) because of my web site and b) she fucking took off. Continue reading