Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Drank every day for 20 years, every 6 weeks or so you’d get cocaine, jabber meaninglessly at douchebag guys and girls who would never fuck you or if they would you couldn’t get a boner. Spend six hours when they go home sucking up your last bumps while making artificial pussies and jerking it to horse porn. Needless to say you were a pig with women. They hated you when it mattered and now you hate them and you just fuck your way through them like a machine. Internet dating was invented right when something in you cracked. Like a weirdo getting his first gun. From there it was just tear em up. You can’t talk to women for shit in real life but the internet, fuck man. They loved you, a lot of them. Why. Probably because you’re tall. No, no, see– one of the things you have to get over is hating yourself. Hating women, hating other people, hating yourself. You are worthy of love. God made you and God only makes things perfect. Well OK. You were worthy of love and got it. You didn’t return it and you only made their lives worse for knowing you. You took them on a date and got them drunk like a machine and then fucked them and never spoke to them again.

Pussy was just another kind of booze. You needed it to not feel ugly. To hell with the pain in the ass thing it’s attached to. You ought to go to the AA for sexaholics, too, you thought. Your home AA venue also serves as a Sex and Love Addicts room. Their vinyl 12 step poster is like the AA one, except it’s diagnostic. 1) We admitted that we used intimacy for (blah blah blah, some bad reason). A list of symptoms, kind of like “you might be a redneck if.” And if you compulsively use OKCupid for unprotected sex with strangers, no intention of seeing them again despite your “looking for” listing saying only “long term dating…” you might just happen to be a redneck.

You wanted to change. You stopped drinking. Which meant you stopped fucking. God became part of your life. Fuck off, He’s helpful. And you went three months and finally you thought: it’s time to date again. How do I do that without hurting someone, you asked.

Go have fun on your date, He said.

You went. She was cool. You were open and human with her. And she with you. And yes, you fucked her. Yes, you made her stand over the cat bowl on the porch on the off chance that your 70 year old neighbor would look out his window. He’s a sweet man and deserves something to look at. But it wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t bad. You were open and honest and vulnerable and it felt good, it felt good… this part of you was God-given too. It didn’t have to be hurtful. Mechanical.

And you saw her again, you spent the night in her clean girl house rolling around watching movies and having filthy unprotected sex. Talking in between. You liked her. Lingered in the morning; it was a hot day, she lives on a hill, you cracked the front of her neighbor’s new Audi backing up with the Benz’s creaky brakes… you were horrified, but it was OK. She didn’t care. Still gave you a long kiss goodbye. You knew you had something. You went home feeling possibility. You could see yourself with her. Dear Lord, thank you for letting me feel this thing even one more time.

You got home. Let out the cat. Headed to the toilet to take your shit of triumph. Ass burbling fire after the 16 oz sustainably harvested coffee with notes of raspberry you drank with her at the yuppie cafe, while the other dorks looked on jealous. Flip the lid, sit, drop your purple American Apparel briefs.

There is a beef gravy shart in them.

You sharted. You fucking sharted. And you didn’t know. Which means you don’t know when . Which means:

You might have also sharted in her bed.

You slept naked.

You might have sharted in her bed.

The worst is the not knowing. If I’d sharted for sure I could recover. But if I didn’t… I mean… you can’t text somebody:

Hey, did I shart in your bed? If so, I’m really sorry!

She has a dog. It sleeps under the covers. When you fuck and she’s on top the dog grinds its twat on your shinbone. Maybe she’ll think it was the dog. Except if the dog ever sharted you better god damn believe she wouldn’t let it snuggle up in her howeverthefuckmany thread count real job girl sheets. Fuck. You did. You must have. You shat in her bed. With the world the way it is, how else could it be.

You know that feeling when you’re a pig but you find God and open your heart and meet a nice girl and you get one more chance and when you do, when you do… you literally shit the bed.

Eloi… Eloi…

She’ll break my heart but I don’t care because my asshole hurts. She’s going on a date with another dude. I don’t want her to. There’s other complicated shit. Who cares. My ass.

I’m afraid it’s cancer. A polyp. Started hurting after four days of diarrhea from bad spinach. Figured it was the acid. My asshole was just overworked and surly. But it got worse. It hurts a little when I sit and a lot when I cough. When I adjust. Until your asshole hurts you don’t know how much you pucker it in life. Suck it in. It’s like a second mouth and all day you’re nibbling your lower lip. When I do that it’s like a rat’s chewing through it. Abrasive pain. You understand why Richard Gere pulled the gerbil’s teeth. It hurts when I shit, obviously. But also when I jerk off. Your asshole pulsates when you nut. Who knew.

I assumed it was a cyst. Whatever it is, it weeps. You feel just a hint of slippery blister fluid trickling in your underwear. The reflex that kicks in when you feel a wet ass: did I shit? All day it’s like this. I had to look. Assumed it was a cyst right over the hole and I could lance it. Got out of the shower, bent over in the mirror. Spread my shitpipe. You never look at your own asshole. But with porn we’re all connoisseurs now. It did not look half bad. If it were on a chick I’d fuck it.

The outside is fine, so whatever hurts is in my ass. Cancer. I spat on a finger, stuck it in. Started to feel something. Slimy cherry size lump covered in smooth wet skin like a salamander’s back. When touched it recoiled, like an animal. The finger made it angry. The burn spread from my ass to my guts to my navel.

I’m gonna ride it out. The doctor would be a hassle. But what if it’s infected. What if it’s a pus bulb from a wound from some shard of chicken bone I swallowed. What if the sharp end of a shattered party wing scratched a 300 yard track through my bowels… organs and blood stewing in half-formed septic shit… We can’t choose the form our death takes. But that would fit.

If you don’t want her to go out with this dude, just tell her, my sponsor says. If you want to be monogamous, say so. If not, fine. But stop with this OKCupid pussy. Those girls are damaged. Go talk to girls in real life. You’re at the grocery store for instance. A woman contemplates celery. You go up to her, you say: I see you’re buying celery. I also like celery. Etc. Meet a nice girl this way.

And now an Isabella Rossellini looking chick with a band aid on her face asks to sit with me. She needs to charge her phone, she says. Right as I’m typing about talking to girls.

Message from God. So what the fuck do I say. I see you have books about art. I also like art. Here are some things I know about art. Anyway, you want to get a drink some night. Here, put your number in my phone. I want to hold a fistful of your hair down, look in your eyes when I’m about to cum. Make you think I might blast in you when you said don’t. A fan of medieval Japanese woodcuts I see. You have tiny arms like a child. I want you to put on Hello Kitty pajama bottoms and stumble squinty eyed from the bedroom and tell me daddy I can’t sleep. Too bad about your fuckin’ muppet eyebrows but I can look past that. You didn’t choose to be Armenian. I want to rut with you like a mandrill and I want it so god damn bad I can’t form a sentence, is what I’m saying. Anyway do you come here often.