Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

My life is perfect. Just need the perfect woman to share it with. Well she kind of is perfect. Asian with tits who does not take birth control. She’s 36. This means dropping sperm in her is like dropping a pinball in one of those Rube Goldberg animations from The Electric Company . God knows what unholy birth defect it’ll land on. But she wraps her legs around your back and grabs on to you like she wants it and I do find the dog charming.

I joined Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Day three of no jerking off. No looking at Tinder, OKCupid. No looking at women with lust in my heart. This means: no looking at women. No fantasizing. Which means: do not think about Lara. Our date to the bird sanctuary. Had to cancel. No thinking about her hair her tits her eyes her face. The curve of her jawline and her neck. Her voice. She likes me. I like her. Kind of a lot. She described me as “a staggeringly talented writer.” We share the exact same opinion on the one important thing.

Don’t think about the taste of her hairy pussy sweating in the summer heat. Her squatting over my face while her AC groans and does not cool the room. No writing about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. Sex is the story. There is nothing else on Earth. Birds, flowers, sunsets: go fuck yourself. Money work friends family sobriety service to other human beings: blow it out your ass. I wake up every morning so I can feel hot salty chowder spurt out of my dick. Preferably into the smelly cooch of an emotionally disturbed teen. Every other moment is just labor to support the meat sac that I am so it can fulfill this purpose. Why have a thoroughbred if you just keep it in the barn.

If you find yourself looking at a woman, look away. Typically I’d masturbate as soon as I got home. Take my vibrating Powerful Male Stroker and strap a medical glove over it. Fill it with Curel ®Ultra Healing ®Intensive Lotion for Extra Dry Skin, recommended by dermatologists. Tuck it between two pillows. Search Bing ®, watch a fat Japanese teen skewered by impossibly long thick Mandingo penis. Jap girl sex sounds weird you out at first, but they grow on you. Plop the unwieldy vibrating pillow Frankenstein on my dick and let it milk me until I cum so fast I’m still only half hard. Then I can think about other things. Other worthless things like food, money, art, literature. And so forth.

Day one I went to an AA meeting. A girl was wearing lingerie for pants. Her boyfriend broke up with her. Her share about it, like reading a young adult ebook written by a Fiverr hire. But dragging my eyes off her succulent young kneecaps was like pulling a mother away from a burning house with her kid in it. I want Sharia law imposed. Burqas for all. The back of a thick nurse’s jiggly hamstring. Inch of a schoolgirl’s elbow, miraculously without that weird texture like the butt end of a baked chicken drumstick. You realize it’s because she’s twelve years old.

Everywhere. You don’t know how much you think about sex until you try to stop, they told me. Bullshit, I thought. Or true for every man but me. Have you read my shit?

I was wrong. I think about sex more than I talked about. More than is physically possible– I distort time to think about fucking. I think about fucking within fucking within fucking like Inception. Can’t have a woman in my peripheral vision without latching on to her like the Terminator. Picture my tongue on every inch of her skin. Lick off her makeup and her lilac scented Secret ®, strong enough for a man PH balanced for a woman. Her half lilac half summer taint smelling sweat therefore clocking in at a perfect 7.0 as I feast on her three day armpit stubble. Don’t write about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. What else am I going to write about, the fucking economy? Guys chasing money so they can fuck.

No conversations with women. This is easy. If I don’t do all the work, nothing happens. Sometimes not even then. My sponsor shared an anecdote about his spiritual growth. His band had played a show. A cute girl spoke to him in a flirtatious manner. He turned her away. The shining trophy of sexual sobriety is: you can turn down pussy if it throws itself at you. Well what if you’re not in a band. What if you’re a conscientious hardworking reasonably well dressed taxpayer, aka: nothing. I’ve had two women approach me in my lifetime. One of them was a virgin who went crazy. Called me every day for two years. The other was a retarded Chinese Jehovah’s Witness. The week before she’d slept with a homeless guy from the subway. I took her bowling, then home. Pulled up her dress and licked her soft belly. Her little panties with a tiny salt crust from her fat cu– DON’T THINK ABOUT IT

What the fuck is a guy in a band going to tell me about pussy. I need a sponsor who’s also a pathetic nebbish. Someone who only barely gets laid through excruciating toil.

Went to an SLAA meeting last night. You think it’s gonna be like AA. Where you hear a guy saying woke up from a blackout in upside down in my flipped minivan… felt something warm in my face… it was my son’s blood… I crawled to the liquor store… and everyone laughs. SLAA is a bunch of weird old Lesbians talking about getting molested. 3 young Mexican bottoms with baby deer eyes always on the verge of weeping. One old bear who does, admittedly, have great stories about banging sailors on meth. But it’s all weepy shit. I shared. I hate this organization, I said. No jerking off and no looking at girls. I want sharia law to be imposed but I’d find a way to jerk off to a woman’s eyebrows. In conclusion: fuck all of you; this group just makes makes me miserable. No one laughed.

Woke up not feeling so bad. Well, I’m agitated. But I was capable of reading Nick Kelman’s Girls. Long involved underage sex scenes without popping wood as hot sauce shit screamed out of my ass. Merely letting words pass through a shallow layer of mind without waking my sex drive. It’s been shut in some corner. A gorilla in a cage, quietly seething, waiting to rip the arms off the guy who comes to put gruel through a slot in the door. What happens when you starve it. Does it just die and go away. I have dreamed of this day.

Think of what you’d accomplish. I feel I like I could conquer the stock market. Crank out clickbait that got me a billion views. I could do all this because: who cares. No point to anything. Without sex no reason to live. So you might as well build an army. Might as well scrape the red phosphorus off a crate full of match heads with a nail clipper file, one little match at a time, a hundred thousand times, put it all in a water cooler bottle with a shoebox worth of screws. Do this fifteen times. Put all those in Uhaul. Park it in front of a school. What I’m not inspired to do is marvel at God’s creation. Help the elderly. Be of service to my fellow addict. I just want to beat up crippled people.

I lost my only chance at happiness not going to the bird sanctuary with her.

She was the one. No question. I know she’s the one because of course I would find the one this week. The perfect date lined up with her and then my sponsor imposes Sharia law. Of course God’s plan– out of all the infinite galaxies, trillions of light years of space filled with uncountable organisms living lives of hope, fear, pain– all this was constructed solely to build me up slowly over decades and make me yearn for true love. Then briefly offer me a chance at it. Then pull it away at the moment of opportunity.

Of course I lose it by my avoidable choice. Some bullshit thing like joining a second twelve step program. I could have reversed this up until now just by beating off. I’d be out of the program. I’d have called her and gone. Held hands by the cormorants. Lived a perfect life filling her with beautiful babies forever. But now the weekend’s over. Now I’ll die alone. She’s at the bird sanctuary with another man. He has a huge, huge penis. They’ll have joy that should have been mine while I step on a needle and get AIDS. God laughs.