Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

I’m going to a date after this, I told the kind eyed AA woman. But don’t worry. There won’t be any booze. I showed up and the girl had a half empty bottle of wine sitting out and a half full cup poured. I was disappointed it did not come to life and speak to me. You ought to get yourself a sponsor early, the woman said. The guy who took me to my first meeting should be my sponsor. He was perfect. A soothing presence. But it’s too weird to ask. I don’t want to impose. Call me, he said, if you’re feeling squirrelly.

Well fuck, I’m feeling squirrelly. But part of feeling squirrelly is you can’t call people. Ain’t that a bitch. My sponsor is this document I am typing into. White page: I feel motherfucking squirrelly.

Deep breath.

Daytime went OK yesterday. Woke up not hung over. Weird feeling, but good. Long commute. Instead of NPR I listened to music. It was Threefer Thursday. David Bowie was winding down. Next up in just a second, folks, we got some AC/DC coming. FUCK YES I screamed at the instrument panel, and accelerated.

The ads started. I haven’t heard a full string of radio ads in five years. But with AC/DC you don’t want to miss the first riff. How bad can ads be. Skit after skit about Valentine’s Day. Awful actors, awful writers, awful production… people fucking get paid for this shit. I languish in obscurity. Take your valentine to Pachonga Casino and Spa. She will delight in 2800 different slots. Buy your special lady a Hyundai at Glendale Auto Mall. Pay only 279 a month. Take out an auto loan for your fucking girlfriend, a failed weatherman was telling me. Has no one ever seen Judge Judy.

Fifteen more ads. Finally the guitar kicks in. DUH NUH NUH– fuck yeah! It’s Highway to Hell, my personal soundtrack for daily living. No Brian Johnson era Adam Sandler soundtrack shit. This was Bon Scott, the realest of the real. Fuck yeah, I told the speedometer. Right then I hit that mountain pass on the 10 East. Lost all reception out of L.A. Had to switch to Inland Empire NPR. A journalist talking to two other journalists. They discuss how other journalists discuss Gay Rights in Russia. Gay journalist says: Western journalists don’t discuss Gay Rights in Russia enough. Ivy League woman who owned multiple horses in her youth says: well Larry, the reality on the ground in Sochi is more nuanced .

If I’d been hung over I’d have broken something in the car when Highway to Hell cut out. But I listened patiently. Did you know you can buy an NPR membership for your pet, a jovial man told me. You’ll receive a stylish pet bandana. I did not daydream about lining up every person who had purchased an NPR membership for their pet. Their stylish bandana-clad pets with them. Taking a Vietnam era napalm thrower to the group. Highway to Hell plays loud enough to mask their screams. This is what it felt like to not be hung over. The day was OK. Then the night. Like someone slowly peeled back my entire skin and hosed me down with ice water. And again today.

Deep breath. Jerk off. Everything will be fine.

At the beach. A woman with big titties walks into the cold water. Other things are happening too– the thunder of the rolling waves. A flock of shorebirds at the waterline. Ibises I think. Skittering at the edge of the sand, digging for clams. Scattering back. They keep a tight formation. Ancient instincts going back to the dinosaurs. Huge brown pelicans glide overhead like pterodactyls; their brightly colored beaks. The majesty of nature and all that other jerkoff shit. She has big titties. Big titties.

I need to have sex soon or I will die. Specifically, I need to have unprotected sex with a woman between fifteen and twenty seven years of age. A new one. No one I have fucked before. The phone is an elephant’s graveyard of girl numbers. Many of them are cute. Some are even funny. But, you fuck a chick three times, she’s expired. I could write more thoughts on the matter but this woman has big titties. Big titties.

How do you talk to her. She has a navel piercing. How do you talk to a person with a navel piercing. I have rediscovered myself in sobriety. It’s been sixty days now. Shit you pushed down when you were drunk grows back fast. The way Chernobyl is forest again. Memories come back. Knowledge. Emotions. I am a healthy and functioning human being. Honest in all affairs. Guided by a loving God to be of service to others. But Jesus, who gives a fuck– the one thing I can’t do is get pussy. Without pussy, why are you alive.

She has big titties, and she’s getting farther into the water, giggling as the cold waves lap up and up; one makes it to her waist and recedes and she shrieks and her bikini bottoms are damp and her cunt starts to suck them up into its fat little crack and I need to throw her down in the water and get on top of her, throw my forearm in her throat, pull the wet nylon out of that fat cunt crack and yank it to the side and just pump my evil seed into her furiously before the lifeguard can run over and pull me off. Women, you understand nothing. Have a kid and maybe you’ll know. Watch your baby get run over by a dump truck. The way you want to throw yourself under the wheels to save it is about the way I want to forcibly rabbit fuck this sorority girl on vacation. All men, always, are just walking around with this. You can’t jerk it out of you. It’s just raging constantly, bubbling agony in your guts now and forever. You need pussy like breathing. And the world just waterboards you.

Women. The fact that you are not brutally raped– not just every day , but several fucking times per day by gangs of engorged male baboons– the fact that your mailman just hands you the Crate and Barrel catalog and smiles instead of strangling you with his government issue fanny pack and throat fucking you, relishing your tears, spraying his triumphant mailman nut on the geraniums… we are doing you a huge fucking favor at all times. We are watching our baby get run over by a dump truck, and just hearing him scream and watching him die. Holding back every billion year old white hot urge so you can feel comfortable walking around. I’m not asking you to like it. But take some pity on us, you merciless shrews.

I asked my sponsor: how do you get women when you’re sober. I’m a nebbish now. I rediscovered myself. Who I really am is a cringing unmanned dork with a hunched spine and raisin nuts. Girls used to smile at me on the street. Now I’m a slug that came out in the rain. I mean, fine– I hate women anyway. Smug peabrained cunts, talking about nothing.

But that baboon urge shrieks at you like a car alarm going off– get laid get laid get laid . So how do you do it. Go do ten approaches, he told me. Neil Strauss game tips circa 2004. Motherfucker, do you know who I am? I fucked attack pussy on fire off the shoulder of Orion.

Tears in the rain. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Heaven is deaf and hell screams and screams.

You know that feeling. Where you drank every day for 20 years. By the end you were blacking out a couple times a week, alone. You were yelling at cops, getting in fights with women– Lesbians duke it out; the straight chicks just bite you. That feeling where you had a solid 20 years of that going on. You accomplished nothing in your career. Your net worth is negative ten thousand dollars, despite your fancy schools. Your car is 35 years old. It cost $1200 on craigslist. The master brake cylinder’s about to go; the thing barely stops. Breather hose is disconnected and just spits blue smoke. The engine doesn’t turn off when you kill the ignition. You have to rev it up, floor it for about ten seconds to push all the diesel out of the fuel line. You have to do this getting home at 10:30 PM in your parking lot that is just under the window of the building next door, where a nice woman has a new baby. Floor your loud as fuck poison fume spewing 1970’s diesel engine late under her window, gas creeps up into the vent and fries the little fucker’s brain. He’ll look at his schoolwork ten years from now and the letters won’t form words, they’ll just dance. No money no job no wife no kids no art no nothing. You have done nothing with your life. Maybe you kept the cat alive but come on, a monkey could raise a cat. Even the cat would be better off without you.