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
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.
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
You have a nice body, they tell me. Or, you are fitter than the other guys I’m with. They say it once. That’s why I work out. Hours and hours and hours. Squat deep, ass to the grass. I can feel my pelvis creaking like an old car’s ball joint that’s about to snap on the freeway. You have a nice butt, they will tell me, once. My knees feel like someone’s digging under the kneecap with a chisel for four days after leg day. You have a nice “V” shape; you have that “V crotch.” It feels like there’s a bird with a sharp beak trying to dig out of my guts the day after I do “core” day, which is to say, the day I fuck the floor using a wheel on a stick. Dead lifts, calf raises. I walk around like Bryan Cranston in Drive. You have a nice body, they say in passing when I’ve fucked them already and who gives a shit.
She broke my toe somehow, with her high heel. She broke my toilet. I could hear it running; I was still too drunk to get up. I just heard a soothing trickle like a rain forest waterfall. It was toilet water saturating the rug. Now my apartment will never not smell like mildew. She bled all over my sheets. Why do girls always get their fucking period at my house, it’s like I have some kind of hormone in the air. I like to think they’re aborting some other man’s seed in preparation for me ravishing their womb. But they always get their fucking period, which, it’s part of nature but it’s fucking disgusting.
Still. What a piece of ass. Continue reading
I fucking treasure this sadness. I treasure that I wake up hugging my pillow and in my half dreams I thought it was you. But your hair was just the cat’s tail. I have seriously wept unconscious tears into my cat’s tail– that is a Shakespearean level of sadness in today’s world. If I had something that smelled like you I would smell it. But I don’t. Not even my sheets. The night I realized you were gone I made a pork roast and farted like Vesuvius for hours and hours in my sleep. I tried to sniff the spot where you slept and… it was a mistake.
I fucking treasure this. Remembering your hair. Your kiss. God damn, you were a great kisser. Gentle. Every little motherfucking thing, things too corny to type. I relish missing them. This pain. The way a leper relishes burning his hand on a candle. I can still feel something. This particular thing, desiring somebody, wanting them to be around, and them wanting to be around. Even if relationships like this, between stunted people, people who fuck strangers in toilet stalls– relationships for us are like milk left on the counter on a hot day. But it’s nice to know that it can exist. Continue reading
What is this girl, texting me– she is nineteen years old and works as a go go dancer at an S & M themed nightclub. She says on her profile that she is looking for an older man. She does not appear to be a prostitute. She has literary pretensions.
What do you even do with this information. When you can’t stay up past ten thirty and don’t even want to. My ball hairs are white. My scrotum looks like a disgusting wizard. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with this nineteen year old go go dancer, it’s that– I can’t even conceive of the logistical hassles to get there. She stays up until four in the morning. It’s like a sparrow wanting to fuck a bat– they just aren’t around at the same time of day. What do I do now, invite her over for the pork roast I’m about to make? A nice hearty meal with some roasted root vegetables while the cold winds blow. Nice glass of red wine and a video. The flavors of rural France. I enjoy the things that old people enjoy, except for the part where I need to impregnate a girl whose professional attire is electrical tape over her nipples.
Continue reading
We were in a booth. At the bar there was a guy, with a girl, and he was fingering the top of her ass and her panties. He was wearing a baggy gray sweatshirt, cream colored shorts, and those sneakers that Teva makes that have a huge tread for your cross country needs. How could someone dressed so poorly be in a position to stick his fingers under a girl’s panties in a bar. She must look like a sea creature. She would turn around and it would be like the last stab of a Twilight Zone episode. I had to know.
Make a noise, I said, and with no hesitation my date swept her martini glass onto the floor. It shattered loudly. Women can still surprise you.
The whole room turned to look. The girl was not bad looking. Who knew.
She did not text you back. She is never coming over again. She found another guy. With a bigger dick. She is with him right now. Showing him the movies that she took back from your apartment. As long as the DVD’s she checked out from her college library were on your TV table, you knew she would never leave you. One day, they were gone.
She was with me because she is deeply insecure and lonely. She stayed with me because she needed a place to go at night, and to be around another person. She seemed grateful that I even wanted her around. The attractive 22 year old college student who is exceptionally skilled with her mouth, vagina, and asshole and cleans your house when you leave. Who brings you food and booze when you had a bad day. Who brings movies. God, what a nightmare. What man would want such a person in his life.
She expected nothing of me. She laughed at my worst jokes. She didn’t have to be entertained. You didn’t have to take her out, spend money, drive all over motherfucking creation to go to her friend’s stupid play or some shit. She just wanted to talk about books and maybe eat something and have a brandy and cuddle on the couch. Then fuck. Make you cum too fast with her tight tiny pussy. God damn. I feel like I conceived her in the computer from Weird Science. Continue reading
The worst thing in the world is a good looking chick who fucks everybody but won’t fuck you, and I know a ton of girls like that. Why do I keep them in my life. I mean, who cares; they are good people and good friends and would give their right arm for me; they’re fun to talk to and go out with and if another chick sees them and thinks I’m fucking them then they’re doing they’re job. You don’t have to fuck everybody.
But you do have to fuck everybody so fuck them for not fucking me. You know who you are. What the fuck is your problem. I’ve been around you alone and drunk, I’ve made a move. You rebuffed me; it was insulting. I’ve seen what you fucked. What human schwag pulled of a crime of opportunity.
But it’s too late now. I’ve known you for years and those are the years when you mattered. Now it’s over. Oh well. You for one didn’t miss out on much. I can’t fuck worth shit. But still. I hope you get hit by a truck.
