Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

He looked at Heather, then at himself, then back at her. Her tits in her white dress with her rosemary plant. Her warm belly in his lap, her naked back damp in the summer heat.

Well I have to say something, he thought. I can’t have a portrait of my god damn ball sac in the neighbor’s window. Go tell him to take it down. Maybe I’ll get that rosemary shot too. She knew me at least. Whatever else he has of hers. I have a right to it, he thought. More than him.

He walked down the driveway and up to the black metal gate of Jack’s building. The buzzers weren’t marked but he tried the handle; unlocked. The old man’s door was first on the left. The rosemary plant was there in its pot, dead. He knocked.

Coming, said the groaning voice.

The peephole darkened. The door creaked open a crack.

I’m glad you’re here, said Jack. I’ve been waiting.

He recognized the sinewy yellow hand that crept out. Reached out to shake it out of reflex. When he woke up there were colors and lights in his eyes. Bright but blurry. He was sitting down. His hands felt wrong, like they were all tendons and bones; there was an ergonomic mouse in one and a warm wet weight in the other. He forced his eyes to focus. Screens. On the left was Heather with her rosemary. On the right, the woman with the horse, furrowing her brow as she struggled to penetrate herself.

Meanwhile I have an infection that will eat my face. Rough spreading redness between the eyes. Lotion every day. By night it recedes. Then when I wake it’s worse. It will spread to my eyeballs and blind me. Die horrible from eye AIDS but first I’ll never get laid again and every woman will laugh at my small penis. And the cat will die.

This is why I can’t have kids. Every minute imagining a rapist vivisecting them. You make a kid, you make a target for acid throwers. Limb severers. As it is I spend at least ten minutes per day picturing a van fragging the cat with its back tires. That’s enough. I don’t need more things to love and be afraid of losing.

All your fears are true. You will die. You will die painfully. The least painful death conceivable is the guillotine. I bet that hurts like a bitch. The blade slicing through your neck nerves, fast as it is– time telescopes out and out and you’re in that moment for a thousand years. Like the stairmaster. Working off one Mrs. Fields Fucking cookie you follow a long train of thought about kneebones grinding. Run lost down long cornering corridors of hate, fear. pain, knowledge of future pain. Look up. The seconds digit hasn’t turned. Watch it laying still for a very long time. Only after does it seem like nothing. In the car with the NPR over the windshield wipers groaning in the cold rain. Cavernously hungry for a Mrs. Field’s cookie. You’re fat. You’ll always be fat. Your soul is fat. No matter how skinny you get people look in your eyes and see fat. Fat ugly stupid small penis long nostril hairs. You trim but you always miss one.

She was a thick black chick and her cunt smelled like celery. Thicker than her pictures but I’m so thirsty I’d fuck a possum carcass. We met by the duck pond. She was leaving town that night. Whatever showed up, I was fucking it.

Now my bed smells like celery. There are pustules on my crotch. Not near my dick. Way off to the left by my inguinal crease. If I get some infection, fine. As long as it’s something condoms wouldn’t have prevented. Because then it’s like: what are you gonna do. I promised myself I’d never wear a condom again. After the Philippines. I put my bare dick in whores, in a country where the average net worth is a chicken. Came back, paid extra for the full bore VD panel. Nothing.

STDs don’t exist. Not for people like me. Every guy I know with herpes has five to eight lifetime partners. Got it from his Brown University econ major fiancee. Guys like me who creampie Throw Momma from the Train against a bar urinal with half a piss soaked pizza slice in it: nothing. Sewer rat immunity. These whiteheads are just a rash from her filthy summer cunt sweat.

She studied zoology. Knew a little about ducks. We saw mallards. They mate for life, she said. It’s romantic. Well yeah, but they also gang rape corpses. Look it up; it’s true.

We walked around the pond holding hands. There are no girls there anymore. It’s all families. 17 year old Mexicans and 45 year old whites walking with their 3 year old kids. Wheezing French bulldogs. Is there more than one kind of egret at this pond, she said. I perked up for a minute. A great egret stalked fish in the reeds, but I couldn’t see whatever else she was talking about. There’s a blue crowned night heron somewhere, I said. But she was looking at double crested cormorant. I pointed out the one pair of American coots left after the migration. They’re an interesting duck, she said. Well no. They’re part of the rail family. Jesus Christ, there’s no hope for anyone.

We got back where we started, by the lily pads. Two male mallards were trying to rip another one’s neck open with their rough snail crushing beaks. They got on top of him and held his neck underwater, screaming. Drive me home, I said.

I’d jerked off five times that morning and couldn’t cum. Had to say I needed a break. Pull out, go limp, rub her ass a little and look at her fat purple pussy so I could picture it. After that I put it in half soft and pumped for fifteen seconds until I shot hot ropes in her navel like a machine gun. She must have been ovulating. Ten awkward minutes and she left.

Sunday I went to a barbecue at a porno shoot. The best looking girl was half black. That’s why Monday I needed to fuck a black stranger from the internet. Director was an old guy; he was in Vietnam in the navy. He saw body parts float past his boat in the Gulf of Tonkin and it meant nothing. You could get a meal and a beer and fuck for five dollars, he said. If one guy caught the clap his buddies would all fuck the same girl out of solidarity. We were nineteen, he said. What are you gonna do.

I shouldn’t have done it. I’m meant to be past this. But if you don’t fuck for too long your spine starts to hunch. Your eyes get nervous and you smell like a leper. Your face looks stupid and your job starts to matter. What if I met my future wife but I was like that. She’d look at me like an insect. I can’t take that chance.

We both know I won’t make 30, I told her. What will you put on my grave. “Kiss Joy as it Flies,” she said.

She died at 4AM Wednesday morning. 36. Heart attack. Drug related. Funeral is tomorrow. I think about putting a snow pea flower in her coffin. I think about her in the coffin and I have to cry.

She’s the other voice in my internal dialogue now. I have to write about you, I tell her. I don’t know what to call it. Maybe “Goodbye Baby” but I never called you baby. Yes, that’s stupid, she says. Obviously shit like “RIP” is out; “She’s Gone,” “She Died,” what the fuck. I can’t use your name. I’m afraid your mom will read it. She’ll think I’m spreading shit that you did drugs. Well you did– you did a ton of fucking drugs. Order an eight ball at 10PM and cook it all up and then another eight ball at 3 in the morning. I had work the next day. Woken up by your douchey fucking dealer from San Diego with the spiky hair. He wanted to fuck you but who didn’t. At least he was respectful about it. Just get a quarter ounce at the start of the night, I’d say. Trying to sound cool. Like I was top secret drugs guy too. Really I was scared.

Well what about “Kiss Joy as it Flies.” It’s too corny, I tell her. But it’s true, she says. Yeah but I can’t be titling shit after William Blake on my blog about fucking whores and taking shits. Stop being afraid to be corny, she says. Just share how you feel. Well then how about “Shit Piss Cunt Fuck,” I say, and she says perfect.