Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Doesn’t it feel good to drop off your dry cleaning and eat your vegetables and jerk off to porn that isn’t underage Russian Stickam videos and watch Louis CK or some shit and pass out on the couch. Wake up at six god damn motherfucking thirty in the morning and get in the car, doesn’t it feel good that you had the brakes done, that you made the blinkers work, you had the tires aligned so it didn’t pull slightly to the left anymore; doesn’t all that feel good.? No. It doesn’t even make you not feel bad. The anxiety you used to feel just gets replaced with other shit. You used to worry about last month’s bills, now you worry about next month’s bills. There is no accomplishment. Just a constant firehose of tiny pains in the ass forever. It will never stop. It will only get worse as your body and mind fall apart and you stay alone.

Doesn’t it feel good to have a paycheck and medical and dental and a 401(k). No. No it does not. Take all this shit and shove it right up your ass. I’m fucking sick of being a good person. A good brother, son, friend, worker, being of service, not drinking, being an instrument of my higher power’s will. I want to blow a rail and pound a World’s Greatest Secretary mug full of cheap brandy and rawdog an underage Mexican god dammit. Fuck God and fuck the Earth and fuck my fellow human beings. I want to give some Tinder slut herpes; I want to kick a retarded baby and dump an old man out of a wheelchair into traffic. Anyway good morning.

Well no. There are day date guys who take girls to coffee and museums. Then there are night date guys girls drink with later. On your night date the How’s OKCupid for You talk happens. I actually went on another date today, she tells you. He was nice. He’s an architect. That text was from him, it says it was nice seeing you today, thanks for coming, I hope I can get to know you better. A nice guy but I just don’t think it’s going to work out. Later she’s at your place trying to pet your cat who wants to be left alone. She’s drunk and can’t read his signals. I’m not usually like this, she tells you. Don’t cum in me.

We were at dinner. And how’s your dating life, she asked. Well if I like them they don’t like me. If they like me I don’t like them. If they’re pretty they won’t fuck me. If they’re ugly they will. I spend my hours trying to find the prettiest woman who’s just ugly enough to fuck me. I can tell my worth from where the needle lands. But let’s be honest: I’ll fuck anything that moves; I’m an animal; I’ll jerk it to porn where the women look like something they pulled out of the Mariana Trench so why not fuck them in real life. Four months since you left me. I’ve been trying to replace you the whole time. One girl came close; she was 22. Her face wasn’t like yours but she had big tits. She left me too. I was hurting from you and I tried to fix it and now I’m hurting from both of you and the evidence keeps piling up that I’m unlovable. Why won’t you love me. What is wrong with me. I mean, my face, but you always said I was hot– Asian women can’t tell when white men are ugly. And vice versa. One of the few blessings God gave us, in dating. Otherwise, whether we’re loved is dictated by the shape of our skull.

You were with me for my body. She was too. She liked to get fucked bent over my bed because my closet doors are mirrors. I want to look at you, she said. You’re all hot. I looked at myself too. My ass pumping ridiculously, muscles upon muscles. It’s a fine body but it feels like a costume, or a parade float that I drive. It’s not me.

God I miss you so bad.

I’m trying to get over it. My weapon is prayer. Accept that everything is as it should be. Part of God’s plan. The closest I get is: I accept that I’ll die alone. With effort I get to where a couple holding hands on the street doesn’t make me want to hang myself. Try to give to the world rather than take. Be a source of peace to others. Don’t chase pussy, because pussy just makes you need more pussy. You accomplish nothing. Still, I’m gonna go to Thailand. They have temples and birds but I’m there to jerk off using other human beings. They are slaves who will pretend to like me due to poverty. I can’t wait.

You get closer but God Himself won’t stop you being horny. Being lonely. I’m a complex chemical accident honed by pure chance over a billion years and I exist solely to spray the goo from my ball sac into teenagers. That is God’s plan. I suffer for not adhering to it. And yet I suffer too when I comply. Women are awful. If you try you’re doomed. If you don’t try, there are no women to observe you not trying. I don’t hate women but I don’t blame men who do. When will it end. When I find a girl I love who loves me. For a minute I thought that was gonna be you.

Anyway, I’d rather not discuss it, I said. And I’m glad to be friends with you. But now I’m supposed to ask you the same question and the one thing I can’t ever hear is you talking about another man. So let’s move on to other topics. This curry, for instance. Spicy.

In the morning I went to shit out the curry. On the toilet tank was a Kafka book I found on the sidewalk. It said: the Messiah will come only when he is no longer necessary.

She had big tits and she was studying to be a mortician. Her OKCupid was all about death. Guatemalan I think. She wouldn’t fuck on the first date. I fingerfucked her in her car instead. A black Camry or something with a tan or gray interior. Pink panties.

I fucked her on the second date and then a couple more times until we drifted apart. Last I heard from her she was getting married to another tall skinny white man with a large broken nose. He’s into guns.

I still jerk off to her occasionally. The fantasy is that I run into her at the Cha Cha Lounge. Fuck her on top of the dumpster in back. Either she’s sitting on it facing me with legs spread open or she’s bent over it. More the former probably, because of the tits. She wants to get pregnant but it isn’t happening with the husband or she doesn’t want it to, and she tells me to cum in her, to give her a baby because I look like him and he won’t notice.

This is from 3 dates 4 years ago. You fuck 200 girls but get all your jerk mileage from the same five women. Why is she the one that sticks. Why are the others written in water. Which one am I to them.

Look– an attractive woman. Jogging outfit. Maybe 22. Even her dewy little armpit is alluring, popping out of a loose tank top. Contrast this with the waitress’ armpit, which has stretch marks. Jogger woman’s armpit is stunning in comparison. I want to tongue the lilac scented Secret® out of it while plowing raw into her hot yeasty jogger’s cunt and prematurely ejaculating. She sees me looking. I feel bad. My look can only mean one thing. She sees a thought bubble drawn over my head with a cartoon drawing of her own sweaty twat; my spent seed burbling out. There is only one thing a man looking at a woman ever means. And women never look at you except to catch you looking.

Some kind of mulatto chick sits near me with big Malcolm Gladwell hair. Pretty. She is reading poetry. So I should talk to her. Hi, what are you reading, I would say.

It’s a poem about how I want to suck your dick in front of these pleasant middle class families on their picnics, about your hot salty jizz rolling in thick spurts across my tongue, she would say. But leave something in your sack to squirt deep into my ovulating young cunt when you bend me over against the Virgin Mary Statue. It’s by Emily Dickinson. She’s wearing black yoga pants and laying back knocking her knees together. Rubbing one thigh against the other. As though anticipating my meatpipe.