Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

It’s natural, but I feel like a miscreant. Three blocks to Patra Burger. Looking, trying not to look like I’m looking. Young girls shaking their asses in tiny skirts and little black underwear. Lifting one another up to give us all a panty shot. I strain to get an image I can remember. High school freshman’s sweaty taint up in the air with another girl’s hot palm jammed in it. Heaven. Clear skin, long shiny hair. Little budding tits. Firm little apple asses. The nineteen year olds taking veiny cock in porn look like crones in comparison. Any woman of legal age is already past her peak.

This is why I can’t be a teacher. This, and I hate young people and have no urge to help society. But mostly because I’d fuck my students. How could you not. Maybe you’d hold back for a year, two, ten. But one day one of them comes on to you. Every cell in your body was crafted over millions of years for the sole purpose of ejaculating inside ovulating young teens. The smell of her armpits after field hockey practice makes you a beast. You’d crack. Then live in terror. She’s gonna talk. She’s gonna write about her crush in her Lisa Frank diary that her parents dig up. She’s gonna tell a friend who tells her therapist who tells the cops. Suddenly you’re in the chester tank. Sex offender for life. A child rapist . Never work again, live in real danger of being flayed alive by medieval peasant mobs. Neighborhood brutes beat you with tire irons. What if it was my daughter, they say, but really– they’re jealous. You took that sweet pussy they can never have.

One of my art teachers tried to fuck me when I was fifteen. A woman. Not bad looking for forty. But I’m almost forty now, I still can’t fuck forty year olds. It was a boarding school. She had an apartment on campus. Her kids went there too and I knew them. I had a cold. She came up to me at night, in a room under the auditorium where they stored theatre props.

You feeling OK, she asked. Under the weather, I told her. Well, she said, if you want to feel better: come to my place and see me. I think you know what I mean. And she gave me the fuck me eyes.

I think you know what I mean. At first I didn’t. She was first person to ever express sexual interest in me. I was an unfuckable dork and thought I would be for life. What did she mean? Seemed to be something forbidden. Smoking pot maybe? I don’t want to smoke pot with a teach– OHHH.

Oh. I am a person that someone wants to fuck. For the first time ever. Holy shit. She is my art teacher. What do I say, I don’t– OK, yeah, I understand, I said. OK. Maybe some time. She turned around. Walked away. Swayed her ass.

Why’d she want to fuck me , I thought. I ‘m ugly. White. Flabby. I have a cold, my nose is all red…. well, now I get it. Work out all you want and get a nice haircut but you’re never going to be as good to fuck as you were at fifteen. Smooth skin, a little downy hair, a dick that gets hard fast and gets hard again and again. Pert little balls, not the H.P. Lovecraft flesh sac hanging off my battered and impotent member now. She wanted to taste my sweet smelling young dick. She wanted my copious sperm load un-mutated by decades of liquor and cigarettes. In adolescence we are made perfect. From there we slowly rot and decline.

There were handsomer boys. But she took a shot at me because I was lonely. Smart. If I hadn’t been such a cringing virginal pussy I’d have gone for it. If I’d been the way I am now. Do it for the story. For the infamy. Did you hear, Delicious Tacos fucked the art teacher. Rumors spread. Murmurs stirring something dark and unholy in the schoolgirls’ loins. Women only know to fuck men who fuck other women. I’d have been a legend.

If I’d been the way I am now. But no. My career as Brolita began and ended in ten seconds. Good. It would have been weird. Scary. I’d be hiring aging hookers now. Telling them to act like an art teacher. Some parts of sex you’re born with. Other parts are clay; they get misshapen when you get molested.

I remember that moment every time I think about underage girls. So: at least ten times per day. I’m glad it happened. If it hadn’t I might have gone for it when I had a shot. Might not have known I could fuck people up. But now I hang back. Look and look away. Head home, jerk the meatpipe. Thoughts of half-hairless Mexican baton girl snatch urge forth a furious load. Haven’t blown one like that since I was her age.

My thanks to the Neighborhood Council.

There are three people who want a job for every job. This doesn’t count people who said “fuck it” and just left the workforce. People underemployed, part time, cleaning toilets with a lit degree.

We don’t make anything physical in America now. The thing we do make, computer code– Mark Zuckerberg is lobbying congress so he can import labor for it. Otherwise he might have to train people. Those people might take that training and do something with it other than make him richer. Can’t have that.

It will get worse. Practically, there will be no jobs soon. First you will be replaced by cheap overseas labor. Then cheap overseas labor will be replaced by robots.

We hear this and we ask: but what will we do for work ?

How will we be slaves?

Everyone is broke and underemployed. Leadership gets elected by promising them jobs. We’re gonna put this great nation back to work. America is a great nation. But Americans are fucking cretins. Who will create jobs? Nobody. Real jobs are gone forever. And all real jobs ever did was murder your life to make some jerkoff richer. Don’t demand jobs. Demand money. Take your jobs and shove them right up your ass.

Every other first world country, this is how it works: when people protest, they demand money . Social programs. Redistribution. We then look down on them. Lazy communist freeloaders. Not like me, I’m the most dedicated free market smoker of grisly millionaire cock in the world, sir. I’ll clock hours I don’t bill for, sir; I’ll get my hand chopped off by sheet metal and won’t sue. I’m happy never to see my kids, sir. To drink cheap beer in front of the TV as my dead-eyed wife snores under the Afghan; once she’s good and passed out I’ll sneak on the internet and pump one off to some Creampie Thais, sir. Thank you so much for making these quality electronic goods so affordable. I’m the best worker bee you’ll ever have, sir, not like these lazy Greeks, Spaniards, Portuguese who want to take an hour– an hour! away from work and drink tea and have siestas. Not like these socialist bums who demand a pension, sir, sick time, sir, vacation, sir– I will suck your musky corporate dick and tickle your smelly gray balls for a free market driven wage, sir. A free market driven wage in a free market that now includes places where you can dump mercury in the well next to a schoolhouse. Places where the water gives you worms. Where young people fight to the death over the right to sleep forty to a room in windowless bunkers that stink of farts, spend their free market wage on speed to stay awake so their head doesn’t droop down into panes of iphone glass whizzing by, molten baths of solder. That is your wage competition. People one generation removed from their life savings being a water buffalo. Zero generations removed from selling their daughters. Their organs.

Well these people work hard , not like you coddled college kids. I dare you whiners to try picking strawberries for one day, ya bums! And we pay ’em two dollars an hour because YOU want cheap strawberries. They line up to get it! Look at your fancy new phone! Ha! What if that phone cost more? You wouldn’t like that, would ya?