Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Let me know your number if you’re down.

We met on a web site. Computers still showed two dimensional images then. People would post their pictures and a few paragraphs about themselves, trying to get a date. A woman chose pictures where she looked thinnest and her face looked most like a child. A man said he was taller than he was and chose pictures where his jawbone stuck out. Men sent messages to women. Hoped the women would pick them. Women waited to be picked.

People had to pretend it was about getting married. Really it was about fucking. Men wanted to fuck much more than women back then. No way you could imagine it now. It was like a hunger where you’d kill a man over a Dorito. It was like being on fire and fucking was the only way to put it out. Women didn’t quite feel that way. They felt something complicated and weird until they met a tall man with the right size jawbone. Then suddenly their feelings were comparable. It was all a nightmare frankly. No one ever got anything done. No wonder the ugly people took over and had us all castrated.

They were at El Prado. He had mineral water. She had dry Riesling. So I have to ask you something, she said.

He knew what was coming but pretended not to. Go ahead.

Are you really as much of an asshole as you say on your blog?

It’s factually true. Things I say happened, happened. But I leave out the parts where I’m a functioning human being most days. It’s boring to say I woke up and took a healthy shit and earned money and paid taxes. Emotional reactions are heightened. Particularly with regard to sex. For instance, I don’t literally want my mouth and nose to be skin grafted onto a 40 year old alcoholic Cambodian woman’s asshole.

My friends told me not to go out with you.

Yes, I know, he thought. That’s part of it. Your friends will tell you not to go out with me which means you have to. Your friends will tell you not to fuck me which means you have to. Don’t think about elephants. Your friends will tell you I’m a pig but it won’t stick until I start liking you and that’s when you leave. And yet here you are, he said.

You know girls are scared of you and you love it, she said.

It’s true, he said. And it was. Or it had been for a while. Now, it wouldn’t hurt to hear something new. But this wasn’t going to be the night. Anyway, I walked here– did you drive?

Uh huh.

Where did you park?

Why are you asking me that.

Why don’t you give me a ride back to my place and we can take a walk in the park.

Oh, and we’re going to listen to the owls and you can try to fuck me?

Correct.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Let me close out my tab.

I can’t believe you’re doing the exact same thing with me that you wrote about 5,000 times and I’m fucking agreeing to it.

How do you think I feel.

Each time they had different drinks and stayed different lengths at the bar. But the tab was always 36 dollars. He still had to think to figure out 20%. The bartender tonight was the one from Bryn Mawr. A floutist. He’d talked to her about BWV 1013. J.S. Bach’s only solo flute composition.

She didn’t recognize him. He needed to spell his name to get the credit card back. When she took the receipt she said thanks with a hint of fuck you on her breath. He could never figure out his transgression.

On the walk to the car he held out his arm. She put her hand in the crook of his elbow. How gentlemanly, she said.

Notice that my bicep is like a cobblestone.

He pulled her in for a kiss on the corner. She didn’t smoke. He used to worry about his tongue tasting like cigarettes but it turned out the effect was overstated. Her car would be nice but ten years old and she would apologize for it. It would be clean but there would be one paper bag and maybe a notebook in the passenger footwell. She’d apologize for the mess. She would plug in her phone with the aux cable and play recent hip hop or R & B. She would apologize for it. This is me, she said. 2004 ML350, black.

I like this car.

It’s old, she said. I’m going to get a new one soon. Sorry it’s a mess.

My car is 13 years older than you. And my toilet is full of silverfish.

She turned the ignition and plugged the phone into the radio. Iggy Azalea’s Fancy played. Oh God, she said– this is a guilty pleasure. I know you like, uh… what’s that thing you always play.

Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun by Debussy.

Right.

Don’t feel bad. I spent all day reading rape arguments on Twitter.

It’s funny that you listen to classical stuff instead of… like, a lot of guys like you play Frank Sinatra.

When Sinatra got a girl home he’d play Ravel.

and swear I meant that there so much that they give that line a rewind , said the radio. What did it mean.

I’m gonna cum too fast the first time. But give me about 15 minutes and I’ll get hard again, he said. I’m sorry but you’re just too hot. She asked about a condom. I don’t have any diseases, he said. Have you been tested? Not since the Philippines. I can’t not tell you that I had unprotected sex with prostitutes over there. But it’s mechanically impossible for a straight man to get an STD.

I hope they were 18 at least.

I have no idea.

He did cum too fast. They kissed for a minute and then turned their attention back to the movie. The Baader Meinhof Complex . Young German terrorists suffer from brutality, paranoia and infighting as they campaign violently to end American imperialism over 10 years. The women were painfully hot. The message, therefore, was: become a terrorist . I need to wash your sperm out of me, she said.

When she went in the bathroom she was white. When she came out she was Asian. His hair was longer and he had the beginnings of a beard. The TV was playing Z by Costa-Gavras. He was surprised at how beautiful she looked naked. Let’s go in the bedroom, he said.

He did last longer the second time. He came on her ass crack and then kissed the back of her neck. Put his face in her hair.

I’m glad I met you, he said.

Yeah, I like you for some reason.

I like you too, he said.

I wonder what it is. You’re a scumbag but you surprised me with the Debussy.

You didn’t remember that? I talk about it on OKCupid.

We didn’t meet on OKCupid. It was Tinder, she said.

Are you sure?

I don’t have OKCupid. I don’t think anyone does anymore.

Will you go out with me again?

I don’t know, honestly. You’re hot but I kind of need a guy with a job.

Why don’t you just stay with me until you find him.

We’ll see, she said, and dug her face between his arm and chest. Let out a warm breath on his skin. They fell asleep with a big wind shaking the palms and the coyotes crying in the hills. He thought: please let her stay.

When they woke up she was Mexican. Her eyebrows were weird but her ass was like a poster. His hair was short again. Hers was curly. I have to get home to my son, she said. But thank you. I had a nice time with you.

Yeah, me too, he said. Let’s uh…

You’re going to invite me over for chicken.

Correct. How about it.

OK, she said. Text me. She kissed his forehead almost like a mother. Started looking for her bra. The blinds were open. Outside a mockingbird sat on a wire with a blade of dead grass in its beak. It must be spring.

The day after I got home I was sitting in traffic on the 10 West. Job interview. Temp secretary at an organic dog food company. Possible permanent hire if the woman doesn’t come back from maternity leave. Who knows what a young mother will do, said the office manager. Eight minute interview. I knew I didn’t get it when I walked in. From his eyebrows. Drive time: 2 hours round trip. Where do you make the dog food, I asked. I don’t know, he said. The Midwest somewhere.