Passions: Interlude– Custom Jerkoff Encouragement

9 Dec
Image: "Ordeal of Man-E-Faces" by Deviant Art user ~danbrenus

Image: “Ordeal of Man-E-Faces” by Deviant Art user ~danbrenus

Previously on Passions:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Interlude 1

Interlude 2

Part 4

Custom Jerkoff Encouragement Videos.  That was the new idea.  Men would pay you to make a video where you sat with your legs spread and talked to the camera about their fetish, liberally incorporating their name.  I want you to cum inside me, Darren.  My life is almost complete but I want to have a baby.  Your baby, Darren.  I want to feel your cum spray inside me, Darren.  This was the example Yuri showed her.  He had bought a studio, which is to say a building with a camera in it in Pacoima between a CLINICA FAMILIAR with posters of frightened pregnant girls in the window and Rudy’s Auto Shop, Specializing in Transmissions Since 1989.  I need you to give me a baby, Darren.  And she smacked her pussy, the star of Yuri’s first producorial effort, betraying her stripper roots.  Smacking your pussy makes a guy who’s staring into his vodka red bull look back up at you in a titty bar; on a laptop video screen it looks cheap and clownish.  Astrid would do better.  Darren had paid one thousand dollars to have somebody tell him she wanted his baby.  The girl got two hundred.  It was eight minutes worth of work and it didn’t seem to be a problem that the girl ran out of material at the two minute mark and just repeated herself.  The American sex industry is the last place in the world where the buyers are so desperate that incompetence is forgiven, even expected.  The quality of acting– the insincerity of the enthusiasm, or the horror in the case of something like rape porn, would have got any Wal Mart greeter fired on his first day.  But you could still feel pity and disgust pretty transparently in the passenger seat of some guy’s Honda as you took off a pair of panties that you’d been supposedly sweating and cumming in for two days and handed them to him for a hundred dollar bill.  You could still be obviously  creeped out as long as you held eye contact.  She bought them in packs of six and swabbed them in her armpits after jogging. Continue reading →

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Work Diaries, Part Three

4 Dec

November 2012

OK, how am I gonna get money.  Maybe Charles Bukowski’s Factotum was not an appropriate book to read when experiencing anxiety about finding a job.  He’s cleaning toilets.  Polishing the brass rail around the L.A. Times building.  I don’t want to do that shit.

I have cleaned toilets.  Worse, I have cleaned toilets for a boss who then inspected each toilet, maddeningly thorough about detecting the tiniest bit of excrement left behind.  As though someone would have to shit, look at the gnat-sized chunk of stubborn waste on the bowl, and scoff.  I can’t shit here!  This was in an office building that hosted small insurance companies.  This was not the president’s toilet, or Madonna’s.  These were men who shit when the spirit moved them, specks of lingering asscrust be damned.  But still.  What is this, she would ask.  I thought you scrubbed the toilet.  Why is this still here. Continue reading →

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Work Diaries, Part Two

2 Dec

main-rotating-images-telemarketer

September 2012

Anyway, I’m feeling pretty god damn motherfucking good at work today, except for, you know, I fucked some little things up.  Who cares.  I hate that menial part of my job, I hate it I hate it I hate it- it’s over.  It’s over.  God damn, it’s fucking over, thank you Jesus.  Thank you Lord.

Now all I gotta do is figure out how to get some god damn motherfucking money.  Cobble a living together.  Cover scripts for money.  Get some bullshit job.  Work for (REDACTED), doing some real estate scam.  Something.

I will make it.  It will be OK.  I came to California with no money.  Or, my grandmother had given me a $500 savings bond and I used it to buy a bicycle, a mattress, and pay the rent on a room.  I got a job out of the newspaper the next day.  Cold calling places.  The job was telemarketing.  I was good at it, but it killed me.  Jobs kill me.  I wasn’t built to work. Continue reading →

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Work Diaries, Part One

1 Dec

The hammer has fallen and I am finally losing my job. To celebrate, I am digging through my journals and reminding myself how much it sucked:

August 2012:

Work did not turn out as badly as I expected today.  This is another way of saying it is one of the top ten work days in my career history.  I expected for months and months worth of tiny fuckups and general laziness to be exposed today, and that I would be rightly castigated.  But my boss is too busy.

I always think: he’s an asshole, but it’s also true that I fucking suck at my job and I don’t give a fuck about it.  I do not give a fuck about movies and TV shows and the various processes and means of support necessary to make these things.  The whole enterprise is too much motherfucking work for very little return.  There are too many hustlers and opportunists and salesmen cluttering up the phone lines and making it impossible to actually see material that is good.  There are too many people trying to be screenwriters.  It is too easy for them to get agents and managers, and too easy for these agents and managers to call me with these shitty screenwriters’ projects and waste my time and exhaust me and it’s because I’m afraid of saying no to them.  And in some corner of my soul I find it offensive because I think I’m a better writer than these people.  Which is not the case.  Three paragraphs a day about jerking off does not compare to writing a fully realized screenplay, no matter how stupid or unfunny it might be. Continue reading →

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I Wish I Had a Gigantic Wang

1 Dec

I feel like a lot of shit would bother me less.  I feel like I wouldn’t be as concerned about whether it had been too long since I had used a Biore deep cleansing pore strip; the filth and visibility of my pores.  I feel like I wouldn’t be so concerned with my meager paycheck and doomed career prospects, because, fuck it, at least I have a huge wang.

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Passions: A Love Story, Part Four

29 Nov

Previously on Passions:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Interlude 1

Interlude 2

October 16, 2012

from: Angela Euna Kim (socalprincess@hotmail.com)

to: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)

Filbert,

Lexus of Alhambra called me this morning. A man told me that my monthly payment was not made on time. I was at brunch with my friends and I don’t need to tell you how embarrassing it is to receive a call from a creditor regarding a late payment when your friends can clearly hear what is being said over the phone. YOU did not make the monthly payment on time and they are assessing a $100 fee and additional interest, and if there are three more late payments the car is in danger of being repossessed (!)

How could you allow this to happen? YOU need to take care of this right away. You also need to call on mom’s car and make sure her latest payments are up to date.  Please do this right now.  If mom got a call from a car dealership telling her she was a deadbeat she would be mortified.

Fuck.  The fucking car payment.

October 16, 2012

from: Filbert B. Kim (fkim@goldbergkimllc.com)

to: Angela Euna Kim (socalprincess@hotmail.com)

Dear Angela,

Why don’t you just call it what it is, you idiot– a fucking Toyota.  A fucking Toyota Camry, except, that wasn’t expensive enough for you.   You needed a Toyota Camry that cost eighty thousand dollars.  Because you liked the color.  Metallic teal.  And probably because you thought the raghead salesman was handsome.  You fucking whore.

You bought it because you liked the fucking metallic teal, and the voice of the onboard computer.  It was easy for you to plug in your god damn earpiece that’s glued to your head like fucking Robocop and make calls where you talk about nothing to your muppet-faced USC friends.  What did you even have to talk about, before you had that fucking car?  Grey’s Anatomy?  God forbid you should pick up a fucking book.  I should have killed you when I had the chance. Continue reading →

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Gertrude Part Six

24 Nov

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 →

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OKCupid: Let’s See If This Works

24 Nov

Continue reading →

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OKCupid: I Am Never, Ever Going to Reference Steely Dan

21 Nov

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 →

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OKCupid: Better Than Expected

18 Nov

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.

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