Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

The old guys on her Tinder. Always in Tour de France gear. Kayaking. Arms raised atop a forbidding crag. I’m still a man, they insist.

The guy with game blew it. He had one good line but now: thirsty message after thirsty message. No other way. Girls just get carpet bombed. There’s no being coy. Hanging back, making her chase you. If you don’t constantly send thirsty message after thirsty message you’re not at the top of her inbox. You just disappear.

They don’t need you. Rich men, handsome men, men with cool jobs– doesn’t matter. It could be Barack fucking Obama. We’ve crossed the rubicon. Not even fame will save you. You must pay for additional Super Likes. Max them out every day. When you get one grudging match you must send epic poems of nutcrushing longing one line at a time. All day every day in hopes that the one moment she looks up, yours is on top. In the future men will dance around on fire burning money and ululating, for the one in one thousand chance of a slight eyebrow raise from a 6 with a BMI of high normal. If she’s Asian he’ll have to catch her eye while assassinating the president with his bare hands to get half a head turn. Merely curing AIDS or cracking interstellar travel– forget it.

Meanwhile my liver tests. It’s what, the 7th now. Ovulation day. Results on the 15th. Eight carefree days of waiting. Thinking about surgeries, pills, procedures I’ll need. The cure for liver ailments is they open you up and implant crawling sea urchins, probably.

She’s still here. After we fucked last night I felt something. Contentment, connection. Like it was from God. She felt it too, I can tell. Some pheromone. She’s ovulating. I didn’t cum in her but close. One drop maybe. Wait for the test on that too. If I didn’t slip I’ll be half disappointed. I am not a pleasant man at all.

She came home in at four in the morning. Passed out with a desk lamp blaring straight in her eyes. She’d been out riding a motorcycle with a male model who tends bar at (REDACTED). If you could cheat you would too. What you’re mad about is you can’t.

She went partying with cute boys. Good for her. Can’t be mad for her being the animal she is. I go to take out the trash and find some fucking Chinese fourteen year old bent over in front of me, what am I gonna I do. The problem is: women live in a world of Chinese fourteen year olds bent over. Cock onslaught out there. Literal god damn male models working at the boutique gentrification restaurant that serves lion meat. Tinder, full of comedians from TV.

I don’t want you to feel bad, I told her. It’s just that everything I felt for you got shut off like a light switch.

But I’m happy you had a good time.

A halfway attractive woman’s life: men falling out of the trees. Men so handsome your own face is a cruel joke. They’re six foot eight. Ride vintage Triumphs. Women, if your life is not like this: you’re ugly. I was gonna throw in that they speak five languages but who gives a shit. Only your face matters. Women are like us. I don’t dream about some worldly polyglot. I dream of a woman who sees past shallow things to fall in love with the special person I am. And she better be hot.

I’m mad that I don’t have a motorcycle. Jealous and inadequate. Some oaf from Kansas can get pussy back to his place from his bar. I wasted my life in an office. Sad that a thing I built up deflated so quick. But also relieved. Now back to normal life. Sit with the cat. Bed at ten PM while down the street men with chiseled faces get girls wet on the back of their Bonnevilles. Men without fulminant livers. I should get an Xbox.

I stole this title from some other writer she’s fucking now. She sent me one of his poems. I had to beg her. She does not want to discuss her love life. Afraid it will make me like her less. Well it did, but the poem didn’t make me jealous. That would have been a problem. He has another one called Dirty Mexican Twat, she said. Parenthetically: it’s not about me.

This one is about you.

What did you expect, you fucking fool. Can’t make a ho into a housewife. Well I’m a ho and someone could easily make me a housewife. Anyone under 35 without birth defects. Anyone halfway interesting. Who reads a book once in a while. Or even not. I just want a bedwarmer. A hole to put babies in. I don’t need a woman who speaks English, or even speaks at all. I need a woman from 1232 AD who can’t read. Stays home. Doesn’t go out taking every dick from every guy in every band, every fucking bartender. All I need is one woman who likes me more than other men. She doesn’t exist. I’m not special enough. The only one who feels this way is my mother.

You made me text that girl from AA. She has less than one year of sobriety. Off limits to the ethical alcoholic. I went after a newcomer once, my sponsor tells me. Two weeks later she hung herself. I held hands with a girl from the only place you ever meet girls. In the morning, a bloody hook hung from the car bumper. An AA girl takes a thousand lifetimes of gnarly dick but somehow touching mine will kill her.

Still, he’s right. Sobriety is good. My sex habits: bad. Don’t let them touch. Already things are fucked up in the rooms. Showed this site to one sober woman last year. She showed it to another who showed it to another and so on. One day I say hi to this girl and she gives me a look like I burned her kids alive. Is she telepathic, I think. How else does she look like she can read my dirty thoughts. What could possibly cause this. I’m a stupid, stupid man.

Had to text her because you walked off the plane and onto another dick. While my bed was still warm. While I was thinking: holy shit I can still feel love. Also: now I’ve fucked a pretty girl and I get to be alone without pain.

You tell me what I already know and I get to do what I want. Which is cry about what we had. What about what we had, you sex addicted semi-pro who was in town on some old guy’s money. But that’s bullshit, calling you that. You’re an extraordinary person. You’re just sick like me. What I felt for you was real. To believe otherwise is to believe love is impossible. Which is probably true. But comprehending it is like grasping the true size of the universe. Your mind isn’t built for it.

Meanwhile my organs are failing. Could be gallbladder worms from the Philippines. Swimming in the filthy river, legs lashed up from steering the moto into some brush thicket out of Predator . No turning radius on those things, and water buffalo in the road. I have not google imaged the worms. Don’t want to shatter my faith that they’re spiny armored things with pincers. Chittering abyssal monsters like from a black smoker, or something that lays in wait for a thousand years in the Marianna Trench. Waiting on a whale carcass to drop so it can feast for a century and grow five school buses long. Really they’re some featureless nematode. Still. They can impregnate themselves. Chew each other’s heads off when they mate; their five sets of hydra-headed squirming barbed genitals. Change sex if there are no girls around. Whatever it is has a better sex life than me. It should start a blog. Someday I’ll get a text from you, you’re engaged to a worm.

In the end you gave me what I want: to be miserable. So I can keep writing shit that brings more girls to make me miserable. Once in a while I think I can’t sustain this. Some day one will feel something back. Enough to not snap at the next shiny object. For your plan to work forever you’d have to live in some Twilight Zone hell where sexual anarchy had progressed so far it made human connection literally inconceivable. Well I’ve got good news.