Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

And shit: she said hi to me. She wants me to fill her with children. I better say something. This is a message from God. Tinder is down, at the exact moment when a pretty girl said hi to me. But her back is to me now. And what the fuck would I say anyway. That’s some nice lasagna you have there in that tupperware. I see you like books.

Now I can’t even maintain eye contact. I’m an unmanly pussy. My face is getting flushed. I’m fucking terrified. A pretty girl showing interest is the worst thing that’s happened in my life.

OK: you must ask her out. Do it as you’re leaving. Be a normal person. Say normal shit. What is your name. Do you want to get a drink with me. I’ll get shot down in front of this smiling yuppie couple. Their detergent commercial looking kids and their fucking Welsh corgi will witness my ignominy. My voice will crack and my penis will fall off. I will shit myself. The shit will be made of acid and squirt in the kids’ faces. The ducks will storm me and chew off my nuts with their awful dinosaur beaks. I will be mocked and humiliated and my children and my children’s children. Anyway, here goes.

I went to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Because I was gonna have a mentally ill woman fly over the Pacific to move into my apartment. I’ve never met her. Our interactions are emails and skypes. I want you to fill my hot holes with your cum, she says. I want you to get me pregnant and call me daddy’s little cum slut. I think I’m going to take pills and kill myself. But she is 22 and Chinese and pretty. All that matters.

Also because I fucked that girl Sunday. OKCupid. It was the morning after my AA fifth step. You take your diary of the evils you’ve done out of hatred and lust and fear and read it to someone. I was with my sponsor inside a 3,000 year old hollowed out sequoia tree. The next day I woke up and meditated for an hour, per Bill W. in the Big Book. Crows cawed behind me and I understood their language. Creatures putting their song into the world. I thought on all my evils. What I’ve done and could still do. I understood that God was real and I was forgiven. I understood that I’d forget this truth but it would still be real . I was laughing and crying. I felt like I’d taken 12 hits of acid. One of the most significant experiences of my life.

Because of my spiritual awakening I moved the date from drinks to daytime. It is bad to use other human beings as fleshlights. We’d feed ducks at the pond. I’d go in with an open heart and get to know her.

The ducks got boring so we ate chicken tenders at Brite Spot and then I took her home and fucked her. I hit it raw and came in her in 3 pumps. Decent sized tits but they were spongey and her taint and inner thighs were woolly like an Armenian. She liked me. We will never speak again.

I am a machine and I can’t stop fucking people. On dates I feel like I’m watching a movie of myself. The whole thing is on rails and if I try to break free I can’t. The duck pond was supposed to be a pleasant G rated affair but now that it happened once, the duck pond is a fuck spot. It doesn’t matter. It could be a church. If I’m with you we are going to fuck. If you fuck enough women women can’t not fuck you. They’re just animals. If you smell like pussy they have to give you more pussy, the way banks give rich people money. As a man, you have no mechanism for not fucking. Not fucking is a woman’s job. The day after, I’m back to hideous thirst and the hole that will never be filled.

I was early for the meeting. Just me and one other guy and he kept eyefucking me. Gays. This is a valuable lesson, I told myself. This is how AA girls feel when I drill my laser eyes into them every meeting. Every woman I see anywhere I leer into her pupils and imagine that I’m pushing down on her collarbones and squirting a crawly unprotected load into her. Making that stupid hot sauce shit face I make when I cum. Hold the stare until she looks away. Colleagues, junior high school girls, the girl selling me cigarettes at the 7-11. The girl on the bus that I’m riding right now, who held my eyes for a heartbeat then scampered to the back like she was in sniper alley.

The meeting started. People talked. They bored the shit out of me and I left to go pull girls off Tinder.

All right. New coffee shop. This place and Dinette and Ostrich Farm are all– they’re all the stereotype. 43 year old white people in tangentially creative fields with robust salaries. Drivers of unusual Mini Coopers with ski racks. Girls with weird old money inbred jawlines and purple hair discussing a Tumblr about Women in Tech. People using the word curate . Curate is the new monetize. Get paid for something worthless. I hate white people.

The feng shui is off here. Every seat exposed so everyone in the room can read your laptop. It’s hard to look at girls’ tits. So it was designed by an idiot. Then again, I’m not what they want here. Weird aging lecher who spends little and leers at girls and frighten them. Maybe it’s made so I wouldn’t like it.

Where the fuck is my hot chocolate, you cystic acne faced cunt. Well, who cares. I’m just renting the seat. And actually the counter girl is kind of hot. It’s just that her face is shiny. I wonder how much money, effort and angst goes into keeping her face merely slightly bumpy and oily instead of a Vladimir Harkonnen wasteland of infected roast beef purple pustules. She is trim. She has an alluringly tiny ass. The kind you can cup in one hand. I want to watch it winking in my mirror as she rides me. Try to see the good in people.

I wonder if they forgot my drink. I hope so. It’d be an excuse for self pity and another example of how I’m invisible. My life is Milton from Office Space. Muttering about how I was shunted into the roach basement. The other barista is back now, the guy who looks like the 20th hijacker, after a 15 minute absence. He was clearly taking a shit. Good for him.

Little mousy haired girl ordering. Baggy white pants. I cannot tolerate a woman who does not wear form fitting clothing on her lower body. In the age of yoga pants I must know every contour of your crack and cameltoe.

Still no cocoa. At what point do I ask. Unending stream of customers. Getting her attention is like making a tough left turn. I don’t want to loudly interject in front of them and look like an asshole. I should just meekly accept it. I should be a martyr for this cocoa. I don’t care about it; I don’t actually want it. I’m paying for it because I want to type in a place where there are girls. I’m afraid of losing ab definition and drinking a 400 calorie hot beverage at 11am will make me into a fat disgusting sack of shit. Let it go.

It is better for me, for the staff, for everything if I don’t ask about the cocoa. But I spent money, so I must have it. One of the purple hair girls takes out her phone and it’s Twitter. Hers looks like mine. Stock ticker of fraternity rapes and racial incidents and women in tech outrages. The Kardashians for college types. Though I’m next to the register the clerk still doesn’t look at me. Unfortunately I continue to exist.

Later a macchiato comes up. She looks at me and says hesitantly: I think this might be… yours? I’m forced to say no, I was waiting on a cocoa. Oh yeah that’s right. Her apathy, something I can only dream of. I need to work in a coffee shop.

The cocoa’s OK. On the way I out I walk behind the counter. Throw my gum in the private employee garbage. She looks at me askance. Take that, fiend.

Well no. I’m talking to you because you seem like you fuck fast. I fucked my ex. She only hurts me. I thought it would make it better to have another girl taste her cunt juice on me. The air next to me feels howlingly empty without her body in it. So I do not want to go out with you Tuesday. There is no Tuesday. There is no tomorrow. No later. There is now. You can fuck me now or never see me, and if I were you, 38 years old, I would take what you can get.