Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

The Webex was about Clear and Clean’s possible cross platform branded campaign with Ellen! Its thesis was that J & J should buy in, even at at Ellen!’s stratospheric-seeming 46 CPM. J & J’s own market research found that teens and tweens identified with civil rights and related ideals. Engagement hadn’t been this significant since Vietnam. Cementing the brand to environment and/ or social justice was correlated to a 38% uptick in urge to share branded content. Tweens were tough. But in CPG you got them through the moms. Ellen! had moms.

Ellen! planned to profile a transgender teen. There were two candidates. Candy, 14, was a figure skater from Oklahoma. Sparkle, 15, a cheerleader/ poetess from Utah. Sparkle was the new face of Clear and Clean’s campaign. Candy had signed with Unilever. Both CPG behemoths wanted in on trans teen anti-bullying. But Unilever’s Dove line was entrenched with overweight over 25’s. Plus, Sparkle was biracial. Her optics were better for Ellen! and frankly, Candy wasn’t hot. Ice sports don’t test well with Hispanics. Unilever would thus be ill-advised to match the 46 CPM Ellen! was asking. Even with the surge in show engagement from Ellen’s newly adopted Pomeranian, Duchess. But for J & J it made sense.

Clear and Clean’s flagship cleanser was a proprietary solvent derived from Butane. It had been used to hose out tanker trucks that carried juice and other food grade fluids. When it had been found to cause cancer in rats this use was discontinued. R & D tried it as an upholstery cleaner and a mentholated cooling wipe for genitals and armpits. Neither tested well. They settled on a new facial product for teens. From 12 to 17 many young people develop acne. Whether they use facial cleanser or not, it arises, persists, then simply goes away. But brand affinity established at 12 drives purchase through adulthood.

There were 30 slides. He only fucked up once. The pie chart over a photo of Sparkle. Ass aloft in a strong boy’s hot palm. Silky hair and pom poms flying. She was the spitting image of the star of a video he’d seen on motherless.com. Teen Tranny Gets Rock Hard Riding Bro’s Cock. A Mexican boy with the face and body of a 14 year old girl and a narrow hairless penis with an angry curve like a scimitar bobbed on another boy’s lap. She had moves. He’d been disturbed by his erection. Quickly x’d out the browser tab. He lingered a beat too long until the Regional Brand Outreach Manager impatiently cleared her throat.

It went well. His team knew Ellen! They’d optimized Target and Tide’s co-branded Ellen! cross promotion of Jane the Virgin. It told Hispanic moms about Tide’s soothing effect on neonatal skin. Tide was a viscous blue serum derived from volcanic ash. The co-branded online video segments garnered 2 million views per day. 1/10th that of motherless.com. If J & J bit: room for growth. A career. In ten years he could run the division. Fifteen more and he could die. It’s boring to talk about, he said.

Tell me

It has to do with marketing, he said.

What do you do exactly

Why do you want to know so bad

I’m rad and I deserve a guy who’s rad, she said.

She did makeup for infomercials. Don’t match dog pictures, he remembered. Small dogs replace a child. Big dogs replace a man. Women with dogs always die alone. She had a pit bull mix. It wore a bandana.

He messaged her “cunt.” Waited for the three dots in a bubble to know she’d seen it. Unmatched her and opened motherless.com. It was his birthday. He was 39.

I was in Boston for my father’s death and I fired up Tinder. Girls there actually match you. Message you. Can you imagine. Enough to make you think: could I live in the cold. Sidewalks packed with surly oafs in puffy Burlington Coat Factory jackets muttering about the fucking Patriots. Their fat Irish faces. I’m stuck in LA though. My mother moved here. Too much of a twist of the knife to move back to the frozen hell I talked her into leaving. Cold ground so hard you fall and hit it like a car door slamming. Can’t leave my mother. Instead she’ll get to watch her only child die alone. Her genes extinguished.

Alcoholic Anonymous women need to stop being so ugly, frankly. Not you, one girl I’ve slept with from there. The rest of them. Cute girls under 30 don’t last in the program. Too many cool guys with free coke. Or if they do they form little packs. Them and five guys who have their look. Goth, punk, whatever. What the fuck happened to me. I used to dress cool and now I have five half cotton half poly wrinkle free adult dress shirts I conscientiously hang on the shower curtain rod. Tag says no dryer. I obey. I’m a sad old dork and I need a woman to help me dress. Without learning to dress I can’t get a woman.

I have no look. Or I look like the gray collar bootlicking office worm I am. You have to be in a band out here, or look like it. Should have stayed in my small town. My kids would be in high school by now. I could leer at their girlfriends from the top of the rumpus room stairs.

What the fuck happened. Work hard and I’m still poor. Dress like a schlumpy dad from a sitcom, own a certified pre owned mid size family sedan. Watch my puny retirement account rack up returns of 16 cents quarterly. This weekend I gotta go wash the pots at the General Service Pancake Breakfast– I have to get out of this. I need money to get back to the jungle and fuck underage teens in the face pussy and asshole. I need a chimp faced girl from fucking Palawan who can’t read and spends all day whipping a water buffalo. She thinks my hotel room is Hearst castle because it has a toilet. Or some plump guinea nurse out of Northeastern whose parents are blue collar drunks from Malden. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

My dad didn’t die. Now he’s waking up. Emotional roller coaster. Got back and went to AA. Saw my painter friend. He’s marginally famous. I told him I’d been in San Francisco, made an amends. Also I fucked this housewife who writes me emails in a hotel off Telegraph Avenue. I came in her. I hope she gets pregnant. How does that happen, he asked. Well I write shit on a web site. Some of it’s about sex. Girls then write me from various towns and ask to fuck.

So you’re like Tucker Max, he said. The truth is too complicated so I said yes and pictured taking the flamethrower from Alien to Tucker Max, his horsefaced wife and his stupid baby. It’s different. My shit is good and it really happened. Why then is he rich and I’m broke.

But my friend was impressed. I get more ass from this than he gets being Julian Schnabel junior. I can bitch but I have pussy lined up all over the world. Told my old man about it in his coma. Somewhere he laughed.

She has nowhere to go. Stop making your readers think I’m a hooker, she says. Will you please buy me a plane ticket.

And I do. It’s cheap, a hundred bucks. And I’m a trick for doing it. But who fucking cares. In six weeks I’ll turn forty. Nothing left to prove with pussy. I look like the fucking chamberlain from the Dark Crystal. Never had money. I’ve had the shittiest, most debased jobs; spinach pickers are cooler than me. Went to the shittiest schools for pussy. Lived in the shittiest towns for pussy. Walk around feeling my gangliness, ugliness, stupidity, weird voice weird face small penis like a cigarette burning the back of my neck since I turned six fucking years old and I’ve still got more pussy than anybody. I’ve fucked like god damn Caligula. The Floyd Mayweather of pussy. No fun to watch but I am un fuckin defeated.

Now, ease into being a sugar daddy. A hundred bucks. Unquestionable grade A piece of ass in my house. She grew up middle class but fucks like a ward of the state. Walk with her down the street. Have guys look at me, think I’m cool. Pretend she’s my wife. Have her listen to me. Tolerate me. I get to sleep next to somebody and be touched. A good deal.