Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

Well I beat off. To Alyssa. After the AA meeting she started showing me her Bumble messages. She was fucking with some guy who asked for nudes. Her long black hair. She’s fat. Not great looking in the face either. But she’s a woman. Her fat Mexicanness brought to mind the fat 23 year old Taiwanese FOB I fucked two Sundays ago. White cotton underwear, pink rings around the thigh holes, some childish pattern on them. Hot loose slippery pussy with a little tang to it from walking around the park in the heat. Her fat belly under me. My sweat dripping into her eyes and her squirming, shielding her face and squealing with her stupid accent. Alyssa in a blue dress pink panties underneath. Fat little baby hands. She asked me for a high five and our palms touched. Hers was warm. It was over.

I decided in the middle of the meeting: I’m going to relapse. Sick of not staring at the tall black haired girl with the I got herpes from the band tattoos. The tops of Jennie A’s preposterous veiny jugs. Anna M in a little skirt, her tan legs crossed like they could open up any time revealing a tunnel of light and at the end her aging taint. Rachel P in her sheer heather gray cotton dress, little bit of gut hanging like she’s freshly knocked up by the six days of seed I’m sitting on. Listen Alyssa, I’m in the sex addicts thing now. I can’t talk about this stuff with you. Too late. He’d sent 20 pictures of his penis with well thought out composition. She’s proud of how she’s fucking with him. You want my nudes, here you go. Sends some dopey picture of Michael Cera. Do you ever really send nudes, I ask. She says I’m not that kind of girl.

It’s wicked to send pretty pictures and give a sad man relief. It’s virtuous to taunt him. Torture him. Not that kind of girl.

He didn’t want to meet you anyway, I told her. He just wanted to beat off to you into the bathroom sink. I beat off to her into the bathroom sink. Halfway through she turned into the FOB with the sloppy pussy. Six of one half a dozen of the other. I wanted 15 hot ropes but only the first one had any force to it. Wanted to feel like I’d crushed all hope for happiness. My future marriage spattering on the toothpaste crusted drain. All I felt was relief. The nut was abnormally thick and yellow. Took after its mother.

I have a date tonight. 38 years old. Look at her profile. Half Asian with excellent bone structure. But who cares. What am I gonna do, have kids with her? One quarter Asian kids with half a good looking face? She’s 38. Biologically useless. Fucking her, as productive as sticking my dick in a log. Plus she’s banged 10,000 indie rock bassists no doubt. Has herpes and the bad kind of HPV. The log it is then.

Still, she guards herself like her pussy’s a treasure. Habit. She disputed my choice of date venue. Jesus Christ, you’re 38. Whatever I say you say yes.

A 19 year old could tell me: to get a whiff of my cunt from 50 yards out, you must climb a high cold mountain harried by buzzards. At the top spend one night in a haunted house. I’d say sign me up. But19 year olds– you say El Prado, they say yes. Or they don’t have ID; you walk around the duck pond then fuck. See them again or don’t. They’re happy. 38 year old makes you crawl across nails. Interrogates you off her checklist. Things she dreams of in a man, which you’ll suffer for other men not providing. How do I know you’re not just looking for sex, she asks. Even I won’t know until I nut. If I did I wouldn’t tell you.

Am I just looking for sex. Yes and no. I’d love it if you were a wizard who made me laugh. But even if you’re a bore– if you said: want to go bowling and fuck, no man replies just bowling please.

Don’t you know how men are by now. How can you not after fucking us for a quarter god damn century. Thousands of us. You tasted the grizzled wangs of bartenders and bassists, senators and sewer scrubbers. Teenage twinks and haggard mummies wheeling oxygen tanks. There’s not one cute woman in LA who hasn’t racked up Wilt Chamberlain numbers. How can you do all that and not learn one thing about men. Or you unlearned what you knew. How does the 19 year old know more than you. She knows not to make me pretend.

********

She was the most physically perfect person I’ve ever seen. Half Nepalese half Danish. But I admired her like you admire a painting. No smell to her. She’s a human rights lawyer. A woman who knows what she wants. Not afraid to say it. To her credit, she also knows it doesn’t exist.

She checked her watch. I’d seen a blue crowned night heron at the pond across the street. But instead of taking her there I asked: drive me home. She parked. Want to come in, I said.

Are you being serious? You can’t tell me you’re feeling chemistry here.

No. But you’re hot. I feel nothing but I could push through it. We’re doomed but I’d still like to masturbate into your unfeeling carcass. How about it.

I’m a man who knows what he wants. She said no and we parted amicably.

A four bedroom house in Hot Springs Montana is 99 thousand fucking dollars. Estimated mortgage: $382 a month. You get a separate detached cottage. The cottage alone, in this shithole fucking city I live in – this disgusting extension of Mexico but with additional loud helicopters and barking dogs and garbage taxes and women who’d rather be set on fire than smile at you– a cottage next to a stucco nest of murderous bike stealing cholos who grill cactuses and light off fireworks and gun Harleys 24 hours a day, as many of them in there as termites in one of those twelve foot mounds in Kenya– this shed costs seven hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars, plus property taxes to pay for schools with the literacy rate of the fucking Hills Have Eyes family; the mortgage after a hundred fifty fucking thousand dollars down is the entire pre-tax income of the median American household.

Have to get the fuck out of here. Battling for scraps of useless pussy with famous men. Men who direct Radiohead videos. Men who have three secret families holed away somewhere and once killed a man.* Men with nineteen inch smooth veinless cocks and tiny button noses and the cocks vibrate and another smaller cock deploys out from the nuts like the alien’s mouth and pleasantly tickles her asshole. Men with net worths like the amount of platinum they estimate is in asteroids. Car collections and horse collections and commensurate pussy collections. The smell of so much hot twat on them it draws bears.

If I have a Tinder match I know it’s fake. OKCupid: 0 visitors, 0 likes, 0 messages. Unless it’s a message from a fucking man. Give me advice on women, they ask. Here it is: get famous or die trying. Get famous a way women understand: music money or murder. James Holmes does better than you. Hot young girls will move mountains to get at him in prison. I’m human garbage; I pay taxes and work.

Summer in Montana. Winter in the Philippines. Both places I’ll be a god to bucolic primitives. The only man who can read. Every bison steak slinging blue eyed teen waitress trembling for my unholy cunning as I demonstrate an Earth-shattering technological innovation: the stick. Virgin cunts drool in awe at my vast cash hoard: $1700. I’ve grappled with civilization. I lost. Now to the trees. If it doesn’t work out I’ll fuck an elk.

She’s still in the shower. I just learned Hepatitis C is not transmitted sexually. Per the Hepatitis C Association, which I may now have to join:

1. Couples with one HCV positive partner had a 2.5 per cent transmission rate over 20 years of unprotected sex