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Reader Mailbag: Do You Get Laid, Or Do You Not Get Laid, Or What?

15 Mar

Various readers ask:

You talk all the time about how you can’t get laid and then you turn around and talk about how you got laid. Which is it, are you a loser or a player?

I am not a player. I am an alcoholic.  I sit at home or in a coffee shop miserable all day muttering to myself and terrified to even look at a woman.  Waiting for the sun to go down so I can drink. Then I have a couple pops and alcohol turns me into a pussy superhero.  I will approach anyone, say anything, come up with hilarious and insightful shit off the cuff and push and push and push until they fuck me. Any drug you get into enough, even depressants, will eventually start energizing you.  Heroin newbies nod off and sleep through their high but an old time junkie feels pumped up after a hit; he’ll be prancing around the room and shadowboxing. Because I am a practiced drunk, I can stay lucid enough to be funny when drinking.  I can stay on my feet as I drink and drink and drink until inhibitions and fear go away.  Getting a girl to fuck you is a 12 round match.  Just stay on your feet and don’t get knocked out by your own fear, by “shit tests,” by logistical problems, whatever. Your opponent will tire herself out.

I’m a sadass Clark Kent during the day and pussy Superman at night. That’s why there are so many bitter diaries talking about how I’m never gonna get laid, and then fuck stories from that same evening. Valentine’s, New Years, Fourth of July, Halloween, were all like this. I hate special occasions but I always get pussy on special occasions.  It’s like I’m two different people.  Both are assholes.

Hey Olivia Part 2

11 Mar

Previously

Why can’t people just be normal when you see them.  Just fucking say hello for Christ’s sake.  Now I’m carrying this weird awkward memory around as I try to order at the god damn coffee shop; it is inhibiting my ability to hit on my server.  I’m at the ATM.  I’m in profile, unmistakable from the sidewalk, intent on my deposit.  I turn to leave and sidling up to the next machine is you, Olivia, turning your head to the side in hopes that I don’t see you.  Because there are so many other ginger chicks with mammoth jugs out there wearing that same dress you wore on our first date.  You’re with a dude, maybe that’s the issue.  Or you’re just a weirdo.

Well, God damn, you look good.  Like you reverse aged.  I forgot that you have good skin.  I was reading this morning, the foreword to a book of Charles Bukowski’s, and it mentioned some Latin title I hadn’t known was his.  It was your tattoo.  So that’s where you got it.  You were a Bukowski fan, I thought.  So that’s why you liked me.  I’m the shitty version of him, but then, not nearly as ugly.  A good compromise for a date.  I didn’t know his work when we went out.  Continue reading →

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Protected: Coffee Shop Diary: Chelsea

6 Mar

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She Doesn’t Like It

28 Feb

when I hassle her about other girls.  Did you get that girl’s number.  We could have a three way with her.  Pressuring her into three ways when I just want a new piece of pussy.  I ask her because she has it so much easier.  Girls can go up to girls and just say “you’re hot.”  You don’t have to pretend you don’t want it.  It’s such a fucking process with men and women.  You, you can go up and say fuck me.

You ask me to move your fucking couch, I ask you talk to girls.   Why don’t you do it yourself, she says.  She has contempt for my neediness.  Asking her to ask for pussy implies that I can’t get pussy on my own.  Well look: I get pussy, but I still need more pussy.  There isn’t so much pussy in the world that I won’t run out.

A Thousand Ships

26 Feb

What killed me was the way she walked.  She would pick up her feet like a cat in a litter box not wanting to step in its piss.  Like a fawn trotting.  It made her ass shake in that sheer little Wilma Flintstone dress and she knew it.  She was “bubbly.”  Friendly.  She dropped a piece of ice and the host said it’s great to watch you bend over and she giggled like it was 1962 and no one ever got sued.  She laughed in a way that let you pretend.  You know she’s fucking some yoga instructor or some Russian guy for money but you can’t remember these things like you can’t remember the alphabet backwards when a cop’s shining a klieg light in your eyes. Continue reading →

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No New Messages

9 Feb

I want this 20 year old girl to message me back.  This 20 year old girl with big tits and a big ass and a cute face, good bone structure, 20 years old.  Looking for casual sex.  What kind of sexual experience, she asked, do I have to give you to get my own entry on your blog.  I ought not to have answered while drunk.  A terrible one, obviously, I said.  A shitty one.  Well it’s the truth.  If you just come over and talk to me and fuck me good and we’re not alone in the world for five minutes, where’s the fun in that.  I need you to get in my head.  I need you to hit me right away with the foreknowledge of loss.  That’s what Gertrude pulled off.  She had her flaws but I knew she was gonna leave me so there was something to think about.  Plus I needed someone to come over and pick up booze on the way home.  Life is pretty simple.

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Coffee Shop Diary: One Who Is To Be Loved

7 Feb

There is a woman talking about using a juice cleanse to cure bronchitis.  She is attractive, but I didn’t need to tell you that.  Ugly women know enough not to talk about a juice cleanse.  Not to talk about astrology.  Only a beautiful girl can go through 22 years of life talking about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer, how the doctors all know the real score; all their fancy chemo drugs are just a scam to keep you sick and Big Pharma doesn’t want you to know the truth because freshly harvested organic carrots don’t make them any money. Only a beautiful girl can go through decades of saying shit like this without being told to shut the fuck up.  This girl, if you saw her– she hasn’t received so much as a cocked eyebrow over anything since she was twelve.  The schlub she’s talking to has such a stink of the unlaid about him that she could start denying the Holocaust and he would be like “wow… yeah.  Interesting.”  Now she’s talking about her best friend in Brooklyn, some art project this friend has going. My friend is like, Amanda, you need to come out and help with the publicity, but it would have been weird staying there.  Her name is Amanda.
Continue reading →

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Always the Same Shit with These Women

30 Jan

Don’t read this if it’s about you.

She is going crazy.  Asking if she can delete my number and facebook, then instantaneously OKC messaging me saying I DON’T HAVE YOUR NUMBER OR FACEBOOK SO I DON’T KNOW HOW GET IN TOUCH WITH YOU. CAN YOU TAKE ALL REFERENCES TO ME ON YOUR WEB SITE DOWN.  She is going to accuse me of rape or something.  Or have some guy kick my ass. Oh well. Continue reading →

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Women

23 Jan

Very little matters to women except that you don’t give a shit about them.  If you can get that going, no slight is unforgivable.  They are single issue voters.  Passion and ambition and confidence, they will say.  Good job and tall and listens to the right kind of music.  Wrong.  A short dispassionate unambitious self-loathing unemployed gnome is digging that ass out to some Slayer.  There was just something about him.

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Some Day I’ll Fuck Her and Then What

7 Jan

This is another post about this person.

Misti.  Well fuck off, I liked her.  She’s a sweetheart.  The date was surprisingly chaste, maddeningly chaste.  But then, what did you expect.  She had been scared of you.  You don’t have to fuck everybody that instant.  You can wait a couple days.   It was… fucking sweet.  It was sweet.  It was fucking romantic, for Christ’s fucking sake.  Long walks on the god damn motherfucking beach.  She revealed after the fact that she’d been wearing a wig.  How would I have known.  She wears the same wig in all of her porns.  She had fifteen of those same fucking wigs laying around.  They ought to name the long straight burgundy colored wig with no bangs after her.  To me, that is just what she looks like.  What the fuck is under there.  Maybe spiders.

Anyway, she was fucking fun and I want to see her again. but– here is the saddest fact in the world.  I could say she’s a a murderous Nazi cunt who kills kids, and I might get the second date.  But it is instant pussy death to type “she was fucking fun and I want to see her again;” somehow, stating interest dries up the vag faster than sawdust spread on a third grader’s puke.  But– fuck off.  You were fun as fuck and I want to see you again.  Eat a dick. Continue reading →

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