Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

But you’re not. I know already that you offer me nothing. But you are pretty. I want to have sex with you. I also know that you are blonde haired blue eyed slender traditional beauty with a college education so fucking you will be an extraordinary hassle. White girls are hard. It’s easier when you’re exotic to somebody. To you I’m just every douche on your high school lacrosse team.

And what a pain in the ass you are already. Your messages are nothing but “dance monkey dance.” Your profile is just one bit of banal self-aggrandizement after another. Like most women. If it weren’t for the genetic accident of your face looking like a small child I would have muttered go fuck yourself as I clicked OKC’s convenient trash can icon. But no one does that to you. They do it to the fat girls but never to you.

They do it to the fat girls but the fat girls still write one bit of banal self-aggrandizement after another. I love my job I love my school I am an artist I am “brainy” I am living my dreams. I am a yogini! I will whoop your ass at scrabble. If one of you had hemorrhoids and wrote an essay about groaning in agony each morning squeezing out hot bloody shit nuggets I’d marry her. If one of you said I dropped out of school and I work a shit job and I have to drink a pint of rotgut at the exact moment the sun goes down to keep my hands from shaking… where are you, lover. We drink tonight under the same moon. We could have top shelf liquor if you’d split the rent. Where are you.

It’s not you. Your shit is too together and no one ever tells you you suck. I’m not saying you suck either. You could be great but I’m never gonna know. You can’t know someone until you fuck them. And I think you’d take more than one date to fuck. Who has that kind of time.

I want someone to reenact Frazetta paintings with, basically. I in my burnished brass codpiece, chiseled deltoids rippling as I swing a double-bladed fire axe at a demon spider with sixteen cat eyes. You, astride the rampant beast in chains, nude but for a tattered bikini and a seal fur cloak that conveniently blows aside from your breasts and crotch in hot winds stirred by a distant alien volcano. Your buttocks could be credibly described as “meaty orbs.” My eyes speak of hellfire and lust as I land the killing blow. The unholy death shriek of the beast echos against the jagged black crags in the middle distance. Three moons look on. With another heave of the blade I split your chains. You are free, but your heart is my slave. I look around, furtively. I need a rag to clean off the stinging spider ichor. There is nothing. We are wearing virtually no fabric. I shrug, and we bone anyway.

How about it.

You know those Staples commercials where they show corporate board meetings. Where it’s clear that the people who made the commercial never had a job. That’s what my office looks like. Dark veneered wood. Gray file cabinets. A conference room where dumb platitudes are projected in Microsoft Powerpoint. I am wearing a bad suit. Other men in bad suits walk behind me chattering. They say numbers and facts about money into phones. They pause to listen to other numbers and facts about money. I look at a monitor. On it is a white spreadsheet with information about money. I look for the cell that tells me about someone’s money. Find it. I pick up a phone with many lights and buttons. Push numbers. Ask a secretary for the person with money. If he– and it’s always he– if he picks up I talk to him about his money. I do this for most of the day, most days, so my boss who is rich can be more rich. His office has golf trophies and two big windows. My office only has one window. But it overlooks a golf course. This is desirable. I have a view of a water hazard. It pleases me when the hazard disrupts a golf game. They look like ants from my window but I can read their frustration. Life is only good when someone has it worse.

What about you.

You meet a girl. She makes you horny. So you like her. But you know she’ll bug the fuck out of you. Sooner or later.

How do you not push that moment. When you are “good with women” you force yourself to make it happen too fast. You look for flaws in her to gird yourself. Make it so she can’t get to you. Love is a fight and you stay on top by loving the other person less. You get to where it’s like this right away. From the first date. First minute. You get girls so you can feel something. But you can only get girls if you feel nothing.

This girl, though. It felt like nature meant for us to breed. Her armpits smelled like our kids would be immune to some ancient parasite. I want to rut with her and fill her soft belly full of babies. I like her accent. Her eyes. But she will bug the fuck out of me sooner or later. The “game” part of you pushes for that moment. Too fast.

Don’t push it. And don’t pull it back. Just feel what you feel. But you tell yourself: snap out of it. This is fleeting bullshit, your mind says. You know it will end so end it now. There’s no free lunch and you can’t break even. Love is a made up story. If you like them they don’t like you.

What can you do. God is evil. She will bug the fuck out of me.

Sooner rather than later.

So as long as I don’t need sex, sleep or human contact, not drinking is gonna go fine. As long as my nights are just: couch. Tubes running fluids in and out of my mouth, dick and ass. Endless loop of Mythbusters on Netflix. As long as I can handle days pacing my apartment alone muttering half sentences, snarling in the mirror… sitting down to write but the words move too fast. This, and one hour a night sitting in a church basement. Me and the other weirdos glaring at two big vinyl posters of platitudes. Everything will be fine.

Went to my second meeting last night. Had a date after. Her house. She made burritos. We fucked. She was on top. There is a tapestry hanging over her bed, with an Aztec theme. My mind left. Journeyed in between the threads making up a slope-headed peasant carrying a water jar. I traveled through irregularities in the textured plaster ceiling. They were mountains on Mars, or some snow planet. Does this not feel good to you honey, she asked. Well yeah, it feels good on my penis. But the rest of me– my entire soul feels like you ripped off a scab too soon. There was not newly formed skin underneath but raw bloody twitching flesh. My whole being is made up of raw skinless meat and a cold wind is blowing over it. Except for my dick. My dick feels great.

I left. I felt bad. She brought up Valentine’s Day. She was a good sport about it. I will spend the night of Valentine’s Day in a church basement with weirdos.

The AA people told me it was a good idea to not be around liquor. I left my date and went to the liquor store to buy cigarettes. Imagined AA people spying on me. Watching me walk past the “LOTTERY, ATM” sign and the cutout of a leering Captain Morgan. Sadly shaking their heads. I made a show of walking out not holding a bag. The liquor store had fine deals on all my favorites, as is its wont. But I managed. I bought cigarettes and looked at the covers of old Hustlers. Law and Order Star Nude! Huh, I wonder which one– nah, I better get out of here.

Went home. Before I could fire up Adam Savage and Jamie “Cuntcrusher” Hyneman I got a text from the other girl. The one with the body. I saw you coming out of the liquor store, she said. Ha. I was just buying cigarettes, I promise. She was eating a truck taco by the Goodwill drop box on Sunset. Asked if I wanted to join her. I can’t, I can’t. I can’t join anybody for anything anymore. Either give me some fucking booze or go away and die.