Tag Archives: gertrude

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

Gertrude Part Five

18 Nov

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

Protected: Weekend Journal 10-28-12: Halloweekend!

28 Oct

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Gertrude Part Four: Further Proof That STD’s Are a Fake Boogeyman

26 Oct

At this point it’s almost like “what do I have to do.”  I’m the Whitey Bulger of herpes, flagrantly committing crimes and then dodging punishment for decades while walking around with my hugely recognizable face in a heavily populated city.  What do I have to do to get an STD.   I mean, maybe this girl– there could still be an incubation period.  When did I start fucking her– probably like a week before this test.  So no AIDS would have come through or anything.

But what the fuck would SHE have to do to get an STD. It’s easier for girls to get it than guys, right?  That’s what they tell you in sex ed.  Sixty per cent of new HIV transmissions are women, eighty seven per cent of new syphilis transmissions are women, blah blah blah…  That’s what they tell you in health class.  They also tell you there’s a big chance that if you fuck someone unprotected you’ll get an STD.  So fuck what they said in health class.  I’m not gonna believe anything that came out of that shit anymore.  I’m gonna go back to my childhood understanding, based on speculation from an ass porn mag given to me by a hobo, that a baby is made when a guy puts his penis into a girl’s butt and pees. Continue reading

Protected: Gertrude Part Three

19 Oct

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Diary: Gertrude Part One and a Half

11 Oct

You 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.
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Gertrude Part Two

30 Sep

She 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