Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Nice people. I don’t think they’d get mad. And if they did, fuck ’em. If you are naked in a window I’m going to look. I’m not going to pull out opera glasses, set up a pup tent and camp out. But I am going to look a beat too long. I am not going to nervously look at the ground after, admitting transgression. There’s an art to leering at women, they say. Not getting caught. Well I don’t give a shit if I get caught.

I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. But yes, I’m looking at your tits. Long enough that you will know. I’m looking at your ass, your crotch, straight into your pussy if it’s out. Sorry. But I’m not going to stop. Seeing that half second of panty-clad cooch, knowing it’s all musky and hot in the dawn– this is a million times more erotic than anything, in an age when every conceivable kind of porn is out there easy and free.

I think you are beautiful. I am not looking at it to gross you out, or scare you. I don’t want to hurt you. Well, OK– I kind of want to break in, hold my hand over your mouth and bend you over your kitchen counter and fuck you hard until I fill you with my seed while you cry and try to bite through my palm. Which is technically hurting you. But I don’t– I don’t really want that. That’s just some dark reptilian recess of my mind. What I actually want is to look at you long enough to memorize what the outline of your twat looks like. Savor the image when I’m masturbating. That’s all. You need that extra beat because otherwise your mind loses images while you beat off. God made us broken, in other words. So: sorry, but, I need to stare. So my dick’s testimony will be admissible in court.

Let’s not make a big deal out of it. I’ll see you on the street. We nod, friendly, like it never happened. Maybe I hold eye contact a second too long. Then you beckon me over and “present” to me like a baboon and we rut like filthy monkeys in the neighbor’s rosemary patc– no! Control yourself, man. We’re in a god damn civilization here.

Half naked in the window. Daisy dukes on the street with the fat-mottled bottom of your ass hanging out. Yoga pants pressing your cuntflaps into sharp relief. Loose low cut tops that let slip a half inch of nipple when you lean over to hand me my change, open toed shoes with toenail polish chipped like a little girl after a day at the beach… you drive me crazy, you god damned women. But please, please:

Never stop.

There are ants in the bathroom sink. I keep jerking off into it. Trying to hold on to the images from porn. Trying not to get distracted by the nightmare Dali tableau of the ants, swarms and swarms of them picking at the crust of my toothpaste. When I nut the first drop makes them scatter, furiously. Then I wash my jizz down the drain and with it their colony. They quickly repopulate.

It’s too fucking hot and I’m hung over as shit and my bike got stolen. I need to call my parents. Tell my mom I’m going to Mexico City. I’ve been holding it back because I don’t want her to freak out. She’ll think I’m gonna get my head cut off, shipped back to her in a cooler. No, it’s fine, I’ll say. I was just in Tijuana, it’s not like you read about. What were you doing there? Uh…

Every half an hour I pull up craigslist and search for my bike. I found one yesterday, the same model. I called the guy; his name was Franco. He’s in a neighborhood controlled by gangs that are friendly with the White Fences of East Hollywood. I believe it is the White Fences who stole my bike. The photo was identical. He was having a yard sale, he said. Come on over and check it out. I was ready to go Rambo. This is my fucking bike. Give it back and I won’t call the cops.

I told El Chuco my plan. Are you out of your fucking mind, he said. You’ll get stomped. If you see the bike, get a picture of the serial number and call the cops. I didn’t know what I was gonna do but I drove out there. Little old guy sitting in a lawn chair. Are you Franco? I asked. I was rehearsing: that’s my fucking bike motherfucker, give it back or I’ll come back here with a shotgun. No, came a voice from behind me. I’m Franco. Danny Trejo’s head on Lou Ferrigno’s body. Tattoos all over his neck.

It was not the same bike. Different color pinstripes. This one belonged to his son who had gone off to college. I was relieved. Hot day; Franco gave me a beer. Bunch of nice shit at his yard sale. Quality furniture and art. A tasteful home.

It was stolen from a girl’s house. An OKCupid first date. Nice looking girl. Cute ass, big titties. Apartment full of beautiful things. Slutty girls love design. I’d biked over drunk. She had another girl with her, a neighbor. I thought I’d walked in to the jaws of a 3 way. But the neighbor was just the murder patrol. Once I was deemed safe she left. We got drunk, more dunk. We fucked. I came in two seconds. Slept next to her naked. I woke up at 3AM and I was trying to rape her. Wrists pinned over her head, legs open. Trying to get the tip in raw when she’d been adamant about condoms. She laughed it off. They always do. When it got light I redeemed myself with powerful and enduring morning wood. She made fresh juice with kale. I walked out triumphant. The day after new pussy is Christmas morning.

But the fucking bike was gone.

I loved that bike. I dream about it now. Speeding down the hills with trees flashing by. When I had it the tires were always going flat. I live at the top of a fucking mountain and I fucked up my knees and hips grinding back home from work. But still. I loved that bike. The White Fences were the big gang on her block, the girl told me. They steal a lot of bikes. Kidnap people’s dogs for ransom. I called the cops. Yeah, it could have been the Whites, the guy said. Could have been the Whites that stole your bike. I pictured the other cops behind him listening, without context. Thinking: what the fuck?

After the yard sale I went into Hollywood to file a police report. So I can call them when I find it in a pawn shop. Which I fucking won’t, it’s gone. But I keep looking. Like a mother who lost her child. I can’t stop thinking about it. My only comfort is to search uselessly. Driving the streets around the girl’s house slow, eyefucking everyone. Someone’s gonna beat my ass.

There was a girl in front of me in line at the police station. She had the best ass I’ve ever seen. Little daisy dukes, prefect orbs of meat hanging out the bottom. She was a victim of ATM fraud, she was saying. The cop looked like an owl. He kept explaining that she needed to call the bank. Just, call Wells Fargo. Just tell them what you told me. Say it in the same tone. I believe you. If you say it emphatically like that, the way you’re saying it now, the bank will too. She’d stop. Tell the story again. My friend pulled me out of the house and she was alone in my room and my information is in the top drawer there. It was her. I don’t know her name, just her nickname. Officer Owl was frustrated with her. Ma’am, I can’t arrest a person just because she was in your house. To his right was Officer Sanchez, talking on the phone. I kept trying to make eye contact with Sanchez. To say: is that not the best ass you have ever seen? His eyes never left his computer. Another cop came in . Six foot eight black guy. Here would be an ally. I shot him the eyes. Is this not, my countenance asked, the best ass you have ever seen? Hightower didn’t give a shit either. What do these cops see to ignore an ass like that.

There was a girl drinking her coffee on the stoop, when I came out to find it gone. She was gorgeous. Perfect. I’m so sorry, she said. If I see it, I’ll get in touch. Who were you staying with? I uh… shit. Apartment five? I didn’t know her name. I only know her internet name, I said. She laughed. I had to explain to my host that I had outed her. Your neighbor thinks you’re a whore now. Well shit, she said. Talk about a whore, you oughta see the men she has over. I made a mental note.