Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Need to go back. Make babies. The women don’t think giving birth is a fate worse than death. I’ll be a gross old rapist in crocs and so what. Now I need money. Time to make dog food.

An unattractive woman I don’t like doesn’t want to see me again. I’m pissed. Because she has a perfect pussy.

All I need is one asset. Good face, nice body, nice pussy, nice intellect. Sense of humor, sense of adventure, an interest in Lake Tanganyika cichlids– PICK ONE. Well forget what you can take , my sponsor tells me. Focus on what you give . I got: OK face nice body nice intellect. Sense of humor sense of adventure interest in Lake Tanganyika cichlids. Well read. Minor internet fame, albeit among woman haters. I can play guitar. I can draw. My pecs have a zipper down the middle. My inguinal crease is so cut that when I take a shit a vein pops above my pubis. I can cook. I have a nice place next to a park. Down the street is another park with waterfowl and I can identify them. I know something of their lifestyles. Perhaps this will be of interest. My hair has perfect gray. I’m not short. Not bald. I don’t have big cock but it’s not… the situation isn’t quite clinical. I’m a good guy. Good to be around. People who know me love me. Still. This fat cunt with the one long nipple hair can’t sent me a god damn text back. And I’m too old to shoot up a school so I just have to take it.

Young girls only fuck at night, and I go to bed early. Before sleep I review my household budget. Murmur approvingly if I’ve saved on groceries. Electric usage dropped. Light touch with the AC. No cable bill but the internet I was paying 30 dollars for became 60 somehow, because I stayed with Time Warner Cable. Phone bill stayed 100 but only by fights and fights with Verizon. Bank fees successfully disputed but I could write an orchestral score of Bank of America hold music from memory.

My H & M slim cut wrinkle free dress shirts hang on the shower curtain rod instead of going in the dryer. I’ll get a year out of them this way. Then they’ll get a stiff yellow crust on the armpits. Some chemical my body makes to ruin shirts. Soon enough a year will pass. Buy more shirts. Old ones go in my car to wipe the dipstick. Soon I’ll have paid off debt. Saved money. A travel fund. A fund for my children’s education. But no vacation, no children. I’ll just watch the number grow and it will please me. I could take care to withdraw cash in front of a girl. Not palm the receipt with the balance. Leave it visible. But there will be no girl. I sleep at 9. Young girls only exist at night.

I’ll marry an old woman. As the drought worsens she’ll grow a hummingbird’s beak from her mouth. Suck the juice from my glands while I sleep. My bones will leak out and become stains on my shirts. I’ll be a pile of queasy shapeless meat and the squirrels will chew out my eyes. Who will take my compound interest.

My parents are coming. They live here now. I have a good relationship with them. This means my sex life is over. The life of money and bills and responsibility has begun. Prompt medical checkups and colonoscopies and the dentist. Classes and homework and extracurriculars and then update mom and dad over dinner. In the queue to die.

I threw out a box of old papers in honor of their arrival. Each week I clean one thing. My apartment becomes livable. Girls would complain about the dust, the toilet. But they stayed.

I stopped drinking. Made a list of my character defects. Prayed for their removal. A list of those I harmed. Prayed for the willingness to make amends. The prayers will be answered. What will be left.

As a personal growth exercise, please answer the following question:

How would you describe your ideal behavior with regard to dating and sex?

I want to be a human hose. Permanently coupled to a never ending mountain of ovulating 13 year old Asian schoolgirls. Perpetually blasting hot yogurty goo into impossibly tight wet adolescent cunts. On the other end, my face, a team of servants stuffs nutrients necessary to continue pumping forth oceans of crawly ejaculate. Healthy foods such as blueberries and yams. Brussels sprouts. Doesn’t have to be organic shit. I’m not fancy.

I want to be an HR Giger flesh abomination rocketing my jizz like alien spores over a canyon of dewy musky unwashed half bald teen pussies forever. Preferably they are Korean. I want to be some kind of pulsating queen ant, or something like the Guild Navigator from the Lynch Dune. Some Lovecraft thing made up only of balls and cocks with thirteen tentacles on the end each of which reach up into virginal pubescent cervix and squirt gouts of bleach smelling nut that dribbles out into their white cotton panties, which I then wear as a mask. Or I want to be exactly as I am but with some super pheromone that forces high school field hockey players to breed with me bent over dumpsters after practice. I want to be reborn as an amoeba inside the sweaty twat of the magnet school sophomore I sit across from on the red line to North Hollywood. Her tennis shorts. Mexican girl,small teeth big gums but she’s diligent about her homework. Something about that makes me need to put another hideous thing like me into her belly and ruin her dreams and flee the country.

Every man is like this. Your father is like this. Your teacher and your clergyman. We are not socially conditioned to be this way. We’re born this way like a dandelion’s born for sunshine. Social conditioning is what stops me from becoming emperor of the world, enslaving every scientist, forcing them to engineer me into a bristly pink urchin of dicks rolling over a stadium piled with spreadeagled nubile teens. Again, preferably they are Asian. Preferably they have braces.

I should have been a jellyfish. Nut on a rock; maybe there are some eggs and you’re done. It’s a curse to be a higher primate. You need looks, clothes, money, hobbies. Getting laid is like applying for college. Passing a credit check. All I want is to impregnate thousands of young Japanese teens with zero consequences of any kind and die from chemical depletion. Starved raisin nuts meekly croaking out dust as I laugh and my soul screams into the sky fulfilled. That or get hit in the crotch with a log. Then I can stop thinking about it.

Anyway.

And now I’m shirtless in the park. Trimmed my chest hair this morning. Feel like a naked pink baby. Can’t tell if I look good like this. Sitting Indian style. Folds of fat choked out by my belt. At 9% body fat this still happens. By the time I get rid of my last chub I’ll be so old I’ll just be skin. There’s another shirtless guy and I keep looking over thinking: does he look better than me?

A girl is checking me out. I guess that means I look good. Now I have this flash of fear. A burning house feeling. A girl looked at me; I better do something about it. This is it, Rocky. Your one shot. She looks away, then back. I don’t have the courage to maintain eye contact. I’d like to think it’s because I’m too mature to pick up girls. It’s because I’m chickenshit. So I look up and awkwardly half smile, making clear that I’m a small dicked nebbish whose seed is unworthy of her loins.

Relax. She’s not that hot. She’s not Asian so who gives a shit. Little gut behind black high waisted pants. If she talked to me I’d talk back. But it’s my job as a man to talk first. If it’s gonna work like that, what do I get in return. She ought to to pay me.

She looks again. A giant invisible hand forces my eyes into my phone and mushes my face into a stupid smirk like there’s something amusing on the screen. I know smiling makes my nose looks big. This makes me smile more. I know my teeth are slightly out of whack. Somewhere in my eyes there is probably agony but she’s too far away for that detail. She’s still looking. I’m summoning material in case she talks to me. All those years of words. This is what they’re for.