Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

We’ll say I love you. Talk about making it work. Pretend it goes somewhere. That’s what I’m paying for. Feeling that it has a future. Paying for pussy: absurd. When my last date told me her dad beat her I took her home and choked her out with a finger in her ass. Made her look in the mirror. We’d known each other sixty minutes. Pussy is free. Love you have to buy. Buy it with charm, fame, or just money. Whatever it is, better have more than her.

I make her write every day. Only way I know to help her. Only way to make her respect me. She’s good. And she’s a hot girl. Year from now she’ll be famous. I’ll wave as she rolls up the limousine window. She’ll forget me when she eclipses me. Women have to lose. When they win you make them sick.

Relax. Channel your love into compassion. Be a good host. Show a good time. Get her mind off problems. Love her like a friend. Like someone you can help. If you love her like a girlfriend she’ll kill you. Last time she almost fucked the guy who wrings out dishrags at the corner bar. Broke your heart a little. This time, who knows. She could get hooks in you. Destroy hope that you can love again. After all it’s full GFE.

He lived alone. Every morning the same spider had fallen in the bathtub. An elegant silvery-looking affair. He’d pick her up carefully by three legs (one leg would have just snapped off). Place her by her web in the corner behind the shampoo bottle. Every morning she’d be back twitching by the drain.

One day he fired up the hot water, slipped on the soap and fell with a crack. And there she was. She was a woman now. Tall and elegant in a silvery dress with the mist shrouding her in rainbows. She held him. Stroked his chest with her soft palm while the hot water hissed on the tiles. I’ve traveled a long time, she said. Looking for one small act of kindness. Finally I’ve found you. She bit into his head and began sucking out the juice.

The last thing I haven’t given over to God. Women. I’ve surrendered work money emotions friends family… everything. Go out in the park in the morning, hear the wind hiss in the leaves. Know that I’m a puny mote in the universe. All will be taken care of. Or it won’t. And I’ll die. And it won’t matter.

But women– there’s no let it happen . I’ve been waiting 40 years for fucking reverse Cinderella to come knocking. And– well shit, it happened once but, a) because of my web site and b) she fucking took off.

Women. If you don’t do absolutely all the work, if you don’t make yourself absolutely exceptional, if you’re not handsome, not tall, not rich– if you don’t have absolutely everything, work for decades to get it, grind yourself down to nothing every instant of every day to maintain it, and (in spite of all this) if you don’t appear to just have it effortlessly– you’ll have no women. Once I’d have said “no woman” but I know better now. “Women,” a substance.

No women would be fine. The dream now is Ted Kaczynski. Shack in Montana; bighorn sheep regard me impassively from the hillside. Blue-white mountains. Tall creaking pines. Except you need to be touched. You need people like you need air, or at least it’s a difference of degree not type. So you have this need that squalls 24 hours a fucking day, never gets sated. And if you don’t work– it will never just happen. There’s no good luck with women. Only the luck you make. If I have to do the work I’ll chase what I want. Rawdog moronic teen poets.

The fucking argument I have to have with my sponsor over Angela coming. He’ll be right; it’s indefensible. Stupid on its face to have this insane thirty four years old and therefore not the mother of my children whore come and stay with me. Except: a) it’s cheap and b) my other option is more Tinder dates. Every woman on Tinder is an idiot who will make you sick. There are no exceptions.*

Or have a leathery old Chinese woman gently hoist my balls skyward as she mechanically chokes my raging purple member. If they cleaned you off with a hot towel it’d be OK. But she takes a wad of toilet paper and smears the fat thick fishy smelling drops off your belly and then sprints to discard it in the bathroom wastebasket. That jizz is my DNA. It is me — treat it like it’s something better than dogshit.

He’s concerned that she’s a coke sniffing drunk. Which is true. That she’s insane. Which is true. And last time she went to fuck a god damn bartender named Chase who rides a motorcycle and auditions for CW shows and works at (REDACTED local restaurant). That was the killer. She’ll fuck another man and can I take it. I think yes. If I can keep my abusive stranglehold on her mind.

She’ll give you STDs, he tells me. Normally I’d say impossible, buts she fucks black guys and black people are where STDs come from. They pick them up in prison, spread them to hood skanks who spread them to that one gateway guy who can’t rap so he does slam poetry to white girls in coffee shops. Or no, I’m being racist. Some STDs you catch from being in a band. Syphilis comes from black people. Herpes from wiry punk singers. I’m sure she fucks them too.

*Except you, honey.

She was in Mexico and she’d left him. He’d bought her a plane ticket to visit him. She said extracting money from men made her feel love. He acquiesced. Then he said a mean thing on the internet. She read it. I don’t think it’s a good idea to see you anymore. Take care, she said, on Whatsapp. Above it her picture smiling like the sweetheart of Sigma Chi.

What to say back. You don’t mean this. You’re crashing off ecstasy, off coke; you’re drunk and fucking some meathead but you’ll remember you love me when you’re back.

Or: fair enough, give me back the plane fare money.

Or let it hang. Always the best answer. Say nothing. Let her fight it out in her own head and come back to… what, the truth? No, this was a woman.

But she was different.

She was leaving him or not. Either way, fine. But the first time a girl says goodbye is a fakeout. Responding makes you look weak. Buying into her world which she knows is crazy. She wants you to not take her bullshit. But I want her bullshit, he thought. Don’t leave me. I want her to be with me in my bed while the cold rain shakes the trees outside my window, I want that to be happening now instead of her being in Mexico with some 2d tier city stockbroker listening to his jaw shiver as he yammers coke talk about the Dave Matthews band or whatever Texas finance people talk about. Big game hunting. Church.

He got on OKCupid. Sent 20 messages as welcome as an Adobe Flash update and one that stuck. He’d wanted a break from this but now a firm hand was needed. She had a body like a fat little boy and her teeth were planted by a drunk. I don’t want to sleep with you, she said when they got back to his apartment. No one does but somehow it happens. She was 20; her cunt was dirty; she’d been out drinking and hadn’t showered in 36 hours and he knew he’d be smelling his left hand jerking off for days. Nature accepts no substitutes. He went to look at Whatsapp with the feeling of just having fucked new pussy. Her message still hurt. I’m sorry, he texted. Then erased it. Then he called her a retarded cunt and erased it and then he had to drive the 20 year old home. They all live in Koreatown now.

What’s the worst case scenario, he thought. She never comes back. What you had was nothing. Or worse it was something and you ended it hurting her. You let it hang, you’ll never know. Text back I’m sorry. Text back: donate the plane fare to the retarded cunt foundation. I’d say make it in your name but that’d be redundant.