Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

I’m also on a new path of trying to be honest. And not use other people.

From AA?

Yeah.

Fuckin weird, she said. But I guess it’s a relief.

What do you mean.

I mean your profile makes it seem like you just drink and fuck skanks, and it scared me. My friends told me not to go out with you.

I can see why they’d say that.

Is that what you’re going to do to me? Take me home and fuck me on your couch and never talk to me again?

Not the last part.

How do I know that?

Look, I wouldn’t believe me either. But I’m going to be honest. This is my last OKCupid date. My sponsor told me to get off it. He told me not to go out with you, actually. But I’m glad I did. There’s a thing about you, fuck– I fucking suck at this. I just like you a lot. I want to see you again.

Are you saying this so I’ll come home with you?

No, he said.

You sure?

I’m sure, he said. I’m not like that anymore.

The phone rings in your pocket and you think it’s her. “I went on that date and realized it was a mistake. Let’s move in together and never stop fucking” she’ll say. It’s Time Warner Cable. An urgent change to the status of your account.

You wonder how it went but you know. She took his huge meaty unprotected cock and came around it a million times until she breathed fire and was full of his offspring. She made that face you like when she’s on top. Weird look of concentration, like a sorceress. Better with him than with you. They have a mortgage now probably. In a year you’ll see her on the street gravid with yuppie eggs, pushing their firstborn in the number one safety rated sport stroller.

Call my sponsor. I gotta get this out of my head, I tell him. I know emotions are healthy but this is sickness.

Did you tell her how you feel, he asks. This guy and his Ward Cleaver pussy advice. Look, I’m sure she figured it out. Anyway I’m gonna get on OKCupid and go slay some ass. No, he tells me. Those internet girls are disgusting. You can go jerk off into some fat degenerate or you can find a real woman. Start a real relationship. Quality girls don’t have to go on OKCupid. They get hit on all the time.

Why then would I add myself to that dogpile. Plus, I don’t know what internet you’re on but mine is chockablock with nubile teen ass. But he’s right, he’s right. Go talk to a woman tomorrow, he says. This is your assignment.

Next morning I go to the coffee shop. It’s all men. Bearded whiteboys hunched over Tumblr. A fat guy reads Thomas Piketty’s Capital. The book of the summer. I’ve been waiting for someone to ask about it at a party. I haven’t read it, I’ll say, but I looked at a precis . I will pronounce precis like the douche I am. It will impress her. First I have to get invited to a party.

On the back patio there’s one woman. Gigantic ass. Face like a Mexican dwarf with Downs syndrome, but forgivable. I should talk to her. Check off my homework. Excuse me, miss. I couldn’t help but notice your fat pudenda clearly defined in your half sheer black yoga pants. Your chubby cunt crack looks like it’s about to come to life and say feed me like Little Shop of Horrors . I’d like to bury my raw helmet in those sweaty yeasty folds, all pungent in the summer heat. Let me know your thoughts. I say nothing.

Another one sits. She is cute, maybe 25. Before that awful dry season at 28 when girls have to get their shit together. Wholesomely pretty. Miss Clairol red hair. Not too red, just enough that she can call herself a ginger on the internet. Out of shape skinny but she’s feeling the top of her own tits, maybe taking a pet hair off her shirt. She has a framed canvas. She is drawing on it. Excuse me, miss. What are you drawing there. Is it my rigid purple cock spraying a hot salty load on your Miss Clairol hair, because if so you are really reading my mind. I say nothing.

Woman in purple yoga pants carrying a baby. The pregnancy weight made her ass floppy. I want to spread the crack open. Bury my face in it. Tongue out her hemorrhoidal postnatal asshole. Mount her and blast on her battered cervix so the kid has a little brother to grow up with. Her jiggly fat white girl thighs. Her soft functional maternity exercise clothing. Her war zone of a cunt. Something primal about it. Proof that her womb yields fruit. She is talking to the waitress, answering some question about the kid. His hair. She must get sick of talking about it. He can walk. He’s roaming free and climbing on the furniture. Clumsy. He’ll fall on the polished cement and crack out all his teeth. Permanently warp his skull. She has a fanny pack full of products for cleaning out his ass.

Now he’s making that baby eye contact with me. Awkward. Sorry for thinking those things about your mom. Enjoy that banana. He smiles at me. She looks. I say nothing.

It’s too hard. I leave and go to the gym. There are girls there too but headphones, iphones. Civilization was built to give women tools to avoid me. The day is a bust.

Try again the next morning. On the way to the cafe I pick up a copy of L.A. X-Press, the hooker paper. A girl works the counter. I have to speak to a woman. Jesus Christ, I tell her. I hold the paper up. These whores are disgusting.

Yeah?

Seriously, look at this. I show her. Sexy Alejandra has a 1/3d page color ad. She’s maybe 65. Body like a white tall kitchen trash bag after you’ve been stomping chicken bones down in it for three weeks. Her lips are full of sheep fat. I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick, I tell the girl.

Oh wow, she says.

And dudes are out there paying for this.

Wow.

I’m sorry for carrying this paper in here. But it’s interesting, you know, they have real world news. Like look, there’s an article about Honduras.

Wow, you never see that.

But you wonder who looks at the brutally murdered Palestinian teen and then wants to fuck a hooker.

Maybe, she says, the idea is that you get so worked up over the pain of the world that you need an erotic massage.

Could be.

I actually like the horoscopes in that one.

Against all odds she is interested. I should keep saying stuff. The Mamas and the Papas is playing. The next thing I would say is: I can’t hear this band without thinking of Papa John Phillips rawdogging his passed out daughter on her 18th birthday. He wrote all their songs, you know. But the girl, I can’t see myself fucking her. So what’s the point. I order tea and leave it alone. The paper tells me new friends could appear on the scene, Pisces.

At night I go to AA. Astrid comes too, because last time she drank she pissed herself and I had to put her in a chokehold to get her upstairs. Afterward a cute girl talks to me. You look exactly like a guy I know, she says. My cousin. You ever flick the bean to him after a family beach outing, I want to ask . She was across from me at the big church table. I’d been eyefucking her all night. Once in a while she’d look up and our eyes would meet. Well here, I say, let me take a picture of myself. You can send it to him. She texts herself the picture. We’re going to Two Boots after, she said. Do you want to come. But I had to take Astrid home. And showing up with Astrid was the only reason this girl spoke to me in the first place. This was AA meeting #150 for me. AA meeting # 1 where I showed up with a tart in a tight dress. #1 where a girl spoke to me after. I hate women.

Well good, my sponsor tells me when I tell him the news. You got a girl’s phone number in real life. Now ask her out.

But I don’t want to. She seems too normal. And I don’t want a girl anyway. Not yet. I want to sit at home alone a few more nights reading that stupid poem and being a pussy about it.