Tags: ass to ass, fat chicks, gertrude, jennifer connelly, okcupid
Archive | Women RSS feed for this section
The Foot Tattoo
16 OctThe foot tattoo makes her seem more accessible. Such a person makes poor sexual decisions. No impulse control. If you have a tattoo on top of your foot, you have no concept of such a thing as “the future.” Having this poem written in script on your foot, a poem I can only assume is something unbelievably stupid, is now and is always going to be an awesome idea, the way to a dog consuming an entire roll of toilet paper will always be an awesome idea.
¡¡¡REMISSION!!!
15 Oct
Nikol D.S. Hasler, the person with the most accurate middle initials in the world.
You know that feeling when you’re having a shitty day at work and people are assholes and you have no money and the car you just bought is now beginning to show signs of a flawed cooling system, but you just tore off a new piece of ass the night before so nothing can really get you down? Well, Nikol’s cancer is in remission. So nothing can get me down today. Also, I tore off a new piece of ass. But mostly it’s Nikol.
Nikol’s cancer is in remission. I never even thought about her cancer, when she had it, unless some big shit like surgery was happening, or it was right after her hair fell out. Unless it was in my face. She was sick, but she’s always sick, because she can take a handle of Von’s brand whiskey to the head and does tons of drugs; she’s the kind of person who texts you “I just took 30 tylenol PM’s and I’m going to die” and you can just laugh it off because she can eat pills that would make a billygoat puke. She’s a tank. But you could never tell if she was just hung over as fuck or if it was, you know, terminal illness. She wasn’t one of these cancer talk people, cancer cancer cancer all the time, my treatments, my symptoms, my positive thinking program, my misguided attempt to use alternative medicine from Mexico that will only accelerate my death. You didn’t think about it. Continue reading
Diary: Gertrude Part One and a Half
11 OctYou get a text on Monday morning from a girl you left at your house. The text is inventorying the contents of your jack drawer. Notably there is an artificial vagina in it made by filling a plastic cup with water and flour paste, pushing a hole into it, and covering it with a condom. You microwaved this creation while on cocaine and affixed it to your vibrating rubber duck and ergonomic airline neck pillow and it was the ne plus ultra of artificial vaginas; so far above and beyond the not inconsiderable amount of previous prototypes. This is the one that flew. It is has now taken on opportunistic airborne yeast and sat in the sun and become a perfectly formed uncooked dinner roll with a warped cast of your half-stiff cocaine penis in the center. She’s amused.
She had written you a letter. Like out of Bukowski’s WOMEN. Dear so and so, I’ve read your blog and your OKC profile and blah blah blah. We should have sex. Well, yes. Yes we should.
Still.
Still. Shouldn’t have sent her that second text this morning. But no. No. Don’t overgame. She’s a very straightforward person. The larger issue is, making decisions about whether you want to hang out with a girl when you’ve been fucking her at night, receiving her unparalleled blowjobs, but not cumming. Not cumming because she told you very matter of factly that your small penis could not get her off. Also because you were fucking her and it got hot, she got into some position that was going to make you pop instantly; you stopped, and she said you should have gone ahead and cum anyway because your dick is too small to get her off. You can’t tell if it’s because of this or just getting past that rubicon; sometimes you’re either going to cum prematurely or not at all. Then you sleep with her all night naked and just keep making out with her in the morning; her little body… and you should have beat off in the shower, but you didn’t, so all day in the office your nuts feel like some swollen half-fermented fruit hanging overripe from the tree ready to fall off. You can feel your heart beat in your nut sac, painfully. So you desperately want to see this person again but it’s just because you’re horny like an animal at your desk and you just keep seeing that ass, that ass, that ass, the way holocaust survivors must see the mule carts stacked with bodies flashing in their mind’s eye over and over again.
Continue reading
Gertrude Part Two
30 SepShe makes me cum too fast. I can’t be completely honest about her because she reads this, but this is one thing she already knows. Fucking on that couch; it’s hot, my balls keep slipping under her ass on the sweaty leather and getting squashed but it’s pleasurable. Her ass is just wringing out my distended sac, and it makes me pop off in two seconds every time. I want to say: let me take a moment to reel in my dirigible sized nutbag so your sweaty ass doesn’t keep rubbing it in the leather; this is what’s making me prematurely ejaculate, but– how do you ever say that sentence. I can barely even type it.
But also because she is twenty two years old and small and not on birth control. Just the smell of the back of her neck. Just the smell of her. Laying around my hot apartment for two days without showering. My bed is awash with her twenty two year old ovulating cuntmusk. I wish it had been fifty days and we lived in god damn Nigeria. In some malarial swamp where she would sweat more. I wish she would eat Indian food and go jog up a mountain in the one hundred and eight degree heat and then wrap herself in layers and layers of every piece of clothing I own under a heat lamp. Twenty two. There is no faking it. This is the thing that billions of dollars and millions of man hours of science are trying to recapture; white bunnies getting their eyelids ripped off in stacks and stacks of wire cages and sprayed with chemicals; people getting their faces slashed up and pulled back like Ed Gein, soaps and lotions and perfumes and hours of grueling tendon wrenching excercise. All to approximate this: the version that God made. Continue reading
Gertrude Part One
28 SepI received an email via this blog:
************
Want sex/need STD test
I’ve been reading your blog for the past hour or so. I saw your OkCupid profile on my handle (REDACTED), in which I’m a 29 year old bisexual woman who lives in Los Angeles. I am actually a 22 year old straight woman who lives in Long Beach. But I work in (REDACTED neighborhood). I’m also 5’4, not 5’10. We should have sex.
You haven’t seen my views on OkCupid because I turned on anonymous browsing. I use that profile to look at exes and people like (REDACTED), who I had awesome sex with for two months until he broke things off because he found out that I was fucking (REDACTED minor celebrity).
(Phone number)
Oh, it’ll have to be protected sex unless you want to wait until my October 2 STD test.
********* Continue reading
Dear Molly Part Twelve
25 SepLook- here’s the deal:
You are broke
Hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt
You just turned thirty, and your eggs are dried up, only good for autistic retarded children
Our industry is collapsing
You live in squalor with filthy pets
You are a revolving door of meaningless relationships with untalented comedians who will only endlessly break your heart
In a cycle of diminishing returns
BUT
BUT, MOLLY
Wait, brb
Getting and Keeping
22 SepSo I need to date a porn star. I need to date someone who is in the sex industry. Someone whose life’s work is a study of sexiness and how to keep guys’ interest sexually. Because I become bored with somebody after maybe three times fucking them. And I’ve given up on them engaging me as human beings. Or, some of them do, but we end up being friends; they can’t be my girlfriend because I don’t want to fuck them anymore. The sex is what holds up my being in a relationship. But the sex becomes a chore, quickly switching from something I have to push for, which lasts all of one first date, to something they have to push for. When they are no longer new pussy, who gives a shit. So I need a girl who can overcome that. And the good news is, I don’t give a shit, you know, morally, if someone is employed in the sex industry. I am not a stick in the mud. But just like I kind of see it as my “work” in a relationship to be amusing and witty and full of valuable facts and ideas and etc., I need someone who sees it as their “work” in a relationship to change up their appearance and maybe walk around in a diaper and take an active role in fucking, persuading me to fuck, getting me off in new and innovative ways, etc.
I need to be beguiled. This is the danger of staying single too long. Of getting too much pussy. Of not “putting the pussy on a pedestal.” Of achieving the dream of being a “player,” someone to whom the act of putting your penis into a new young attractive woman is as rote as putting on a pair of shoes– when you win, it becomes bathwater. Something you’re just used to. Continue reading
You Should Have Been Born Ugly
18 SepBecause you’re pretty smart, but you have fallen into every single trap that good looking girls do. You believe in astrology, The Law of Attraction™, organic carrot juice being put in your ass to cure cancer. You are acutely interested in shoes and handbags. The weird thing is you discuss all this shit intelligently. You hear any of this shit from a fat chick and they’d rightly be told to fuck off. Get back to the farm. But you, you’re gonna carry this stupid shit with you for your whole life. Nobody ever wants to tell you there’s no tooth fairy. Like, the greatest genius in rural Swaziland still believes in sorcery, because no one’s around to tell him: “no, physics.” Instead he becomes the best shaman with the farthest reaching knowledge of how sodomizing a bull and having virgins drink the collected semen while wrapped in asps will ensure power, strength and virility for seven years.
A Thing That Booze Makes You Stop thinking
13 SepWhat if she texts you the next day before you even get out of bed and says “I just want you to know that I had a REALLY great time last night– let me know when you want to hang! ” And then later that same day– “Dinner?
” And so on and then like four days later “I think I might be having a problem with my phone- some people aren’t getting my txts– are u doing anything 2night?
” What if you didn’t pull out and in the back of your mind all day at work you are just thinking about having a stupid baby with this person, having to talk to her every day for eighteen years; you just want to text her to see if she got her period but you know any contact is gonna be met with fifteen thousand prompts to do something with this humorless and semiliterate person. Who looked kind of like Emily Blunt when you were drunk but when you woke up it became clear that she had that weird bad skin where the makeup they use to cover up the bad skin gets trapped in the craters and on the protuberances and thickly coats the weird fine downy hairs all over her face; her gums are far too large and vividly purple for her small teeth, and yet she feels no compunction whatsoever about smiling with her top lip all the way up by her nostrils like the giraffe at the zoo that constantly reaches for the eucalyptus branch that is hanging just outside the bars of its cage… any person with any degree of self awareness who had ever once smiled in a mirror would have immediately taken rigorous steps to train themselves to smile while leaving their generous top lip draped over these fifteen thousand miles of veiny grape Hubba Bubba colored gums… why is her mouth the same color inside as that of a black German Shepherd; shouldn’t the inside of everyone’s mouth be the same color… must be these weird Mexican chicks with their Aztec blood… but anyway, that’s the real problem. Not that she has these minor physical drawbacks but that she’s the sort of person who never even notices them, even though everyone else does instantly and they are appalled. God forbid I have impregnated this woman and the resulting offspring inherits this subhuman level of self-examination. This person smiles like a dog drags its gross pussy and ass across the rug in front of company for sexual gratification. Just go home and go to bed for Christ’s sake.
New Book
