The Difference

5 May

Between men’s and women’s sex fantasies is this:

If the cheerful 19 year old girl who delivers mail to my office came up to me one afternoon when no one else was around, and said “hey– you want to duck in the supply closet and fuck?”  It would be the best day of my life.

If you were sweeping out your stern patrician father’s horse barn in 1895, and a mysterious stranger came in out of a rainstorm, possibly masked, and despite your chaste protestations he brutally ravaged you as the steely eyes of the stallions looked on, it would be the worst day of your life.

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How to Quit Drinking and Smoking

5 May

Anyway.  I did not drink to excess last night.  And you know… I feel OK.  I feel better than usual. I also only smoked two cigarettes yesterday.  These are longtime goals of mine– do not drink to excess every god damn motherfucking night, and, as a corollary, do not, having drunk to excess, stand out on the porch and take a couple drags off a fresh cigarette and then put it out, then go back in the house and take a shot, look at shit on wikipedia, then, fifteen minutes later, go back out and relight and take another couple drags off the cigarette until the thing is gone, and you have then smoked four cigarettes that day. And drunk six tall brandies. And you wake up with a fog in your sinuses, you know… some hissing behind your forehead, sour phlegm in your mouth, and a cough that feels like it can’t quite reach the very bottom of your lungs where a couple oysterlike lumps of mucous are sitting in a soup of ashes and tar.

So today is not one of those days. And I feel somewhat better.  The thing is, merely feeling a notch or two physically better does not even begin to address the larger problems in your life.  The day to day, just– suck.  The removal of this small negative does not quite get you to zero.  And that’s all life is, a struggle to get to zero.

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The End of the World

4 May

I keep thinking about nuclear disaster.  Or some other apocalyptic thing.  Tsunami, mega-earthquake, plague– something.  As long as you made it through, as long as you were not burned by radiation or given giant infectious pustules– as long as you made it through, and weren’t somehow trapped caring for the millions of others who did have radiation burns and giant pustules– the end of the world world be fucking great.

And this is why there are so many movies about it, books about it– it’s not out of fear.  It’s out of wish fulfillment.  Just like Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker, Frodo Baggins and etc . etc. etc.–aren’t orphans in their stories because of fear of losing your parents, but because kids wish their parents were dead.  That the bumbling, irritating schlumps constantly pestering you with questions that are like cigarette burns on the back of your neck– they wish these people had never existed for them, and that their real mommy were a princess who owned a huge magical castle that you could live in, and would have plenty of space to keep the two of you apart.

But anyway, if the world ended, it would be great.  Or at least, if civilization ended.  Loot the grocery store for a bunch of food and go up to the mountains and camp.  Shoot a deer once in a while.  Nice quiet nights by the fire.  Find a young woman of breeding age who needs you for protection and couldn’t leave you or she would die.  Take over some abandoned cabin and raise a modest amount of livestock and just rawdog her for the rest of your life. Continue reading →

Salad

3 May

I was eating salads every day at the height of my male anorexia. I thought that salads were this kind of calorie-free bulk. On the back of the monster lawn-and-leaf-bag-sized baby greens package it says that one serving has fifteen calories and there are only five servings per bag. With things like that they inflate the serving size so it looks like you get more vitamin A and shit; not like chips where a vending machine bag of Doritos has enough servings to last a family for a year.

So I was eating big salads, but I stopped losing weight. And this is because I was putting two tablespoons of dressing on there— a reasonable amount— but two tablespoons of dressing has as many calories as a Hershey bar. And I was putting two cubic inches of chopped cheddar cheese on there— and two cubic inches of chopped cheddar cheese has as many calories as a Krispy Kreme doughnut. It was like a goddamn horror movie for me when I finally read the calorie counts on the various condiments and trimmings in my fridge. A tiny amount of food would always turn out to have this hellaciously huge amount of calories—like, if you burned a chunk of cheese it should heat your house for the whole winter. It should change the fucking climate.
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No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

2 May

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Protected: Confession

2 May

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Diary 2005: The Gym

1 May

I hate the gym. That fucking stairmaster, the endless agony– I’ll have moments when I’m on there, swerving all herky-jerky like a marionette– I space out, follow a thought or daydream along a whole complex sequence for what seems like several minutes, and then I look down and not one second has passed. I can grasp the infinitude of hell this way. The weights– rusty medieval torture devices, the bench press crushing the breath out of my chest, grinding me down into the sweaty staphylococcal pleather… and I never gain one ounce of strength. I’ve been benching 205 on a good day for over a year. Continue reading →

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The Lady or the Tiger

1 May

I just got a missed call from a girl I slept with a while back. I met her off OKC. No condom but I didn’t nut in her. I know she was using no birth control. I called her for a second date but she blew me off and disappeared.

So.

Is she calling me to tell me she gave me AIDS and is pregnant and keeping it? Or because she just broke up with some dude and is going to give me the fucking of a lifetime?

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Another Reason Why I Love Kenny Rogers

30 Apr

In the 90’s, Kenny got busted for having phone sex with his three mistresses, when his marriage was falling apart.  The way it worked was KENNY SET UP A FUCKING 800 NUMBER FOR THEM and when they called, they would hear a recording of Kenny describing sex fantasies.  Stuff like: “He’s a big guy, six foot three maybe, but a great body. . . . He’s been in the sun, you can tell. . . . He’s so gentle with you and he takes his pants off and he’s got on these underwear that are kind of silk underwear … and you feel his skin all over you. . .”

This is shit straight out of a romance novel. Kenny considerately put some thought into what women might want and tried laying it down in the soothing road-worn voice of Kenny Rogers.  Any other dude would have been like “and then I fuck your face till you choke on my cock and pull out and jizz on your sister’s tits,” etc. Kenny’s sex fantasies are completely unselfish.

And when busted, here’s what he said: “It’s not like I took fourteen-year-old girls and tied them up and fed them drugs, I mean, these were conversations. These were words.” FUCK YEAH I DID IT AND IT WAS NO BIG FUCKING DEAL- GET OFF MY BACK.  Kenny has balls.

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Protected: Diary 11/15/10: Trying to Remember Girls I Have Boned Recently

29 Apr

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