Delicious Tacos - The Pussy

I moved your food bowl and I want to collapse. Leaving the door open waiting for you to come bounding in. You can’t be gone. Don’t be gone. They let me say goodbye but you’d already left. Brain swollen up from being shaken, on a respirator with a clip holding out your tongue. They let me touch you but you weren’t there. They’ll give me your ashes in a clay pot. It will have a nice paw print, the vet said. An expert at watching people cry. But I don’t think she’d seen anything like it.

God, I wish it was me. But then how would your life be after. I was the only one you trusted. It was a joke with the girls: the cat hates you. The man across the street came with a card. He said Bud was in my yard for years but never let me pet him. When you got fleas I gave you a bath myself because you’d have hated the groomer. I didn’t want you to be scared.

I’m sorry you were hurt and scared when you died, Bud.

I moved your food bowl and I want to put it back. Closed the door and now you can’t come in. I’m not ready for you to go. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I love you forever and I can’t let you go, I can’t.

You were a sweetheart. You were a tough bastard. You were a lap dog. You were a wild murderous savage; you’d uproot the gophers with their earth mover claws, laugh off the mockingbirds dive bombing you. You gave the dogs hell until they moved in with that killing machine. I think about killing him but he’s just an animal too.

You had a good life and a good home. You loved me and I loved you. I’ll let your ashes go in the park. When night comes and the wind blows in over the grass you’ll come home.

I had a Tinder date but I canceled and went to get jerked off at a whorehouse in Rosemead. I’d heard it was a hooker town. I was there already, for Alcoholics Anonymous’ General Service Area 5 Assembly All Districts Pre-Conference Committee Workshop… the real title’s even longer but I stopped reading. It’s two days long. You sit at a table with ugly old men with white nostril hair. Discuss how AA can reach more psychiatrists and clergymen. The girl was pimply and probably 30 but she had big Chinese titties. Ass like she deadlifts regularly. And she wouldn’t even jack me off.

She drizzled hot oil on me and stroked my ass crack and inguinal crease for an hour. When it became clear that she wasn’t grasping at my angry red penis in its little sheet tent I asked. She said eef I do that I go to jail. Instead she swabbed my balls with her palm while I jerked myself off. Cupped her cinder block ass in my other hand through her knockoff Juicy sweats. White terrycloth.

Cops cracking down in Rosemead. God forbid a man gets what he wants. But then who cares about a handjob. She tickled my oily asshole. Told me I have a nice body. I can’t believe you’re 40, she said. I do have a nice body. I do look fucking good for a middle aged weirdo who’s smoked for 20 years and did black tar heroin under the freeway overpass with homeless wife killers. I know this but need to be told. Dates never say it anymore. They’re too busy with I’m not usually like this. Have you been tested. Shut up and savor my magnificence.

The date– she was a student of Hugo Schwyzer. She’d have fucked me. I could text her now, have her come out to the duck pond. But I don’t want the hour of talking before my apartment. I don’t want a date and I don’t want a hooker either. I need girls to want me but I’m sick of dancing. Only ones who come right to your place are mannish pigs built like Artie Lange. Giant sweaty pubic fat pads with razor bumps.

Even this would be fine, if I didn’t have to chase it. But Vladimir Harkonnen makes you message first.

What do I want. My mind wants a smart girl like Nikol. My body wants a 15 year old who picks rice, cries because deek too long . My heart wants Angela to tell me I’m sick of these other guys. Let’s buy a house in Montana and you just fill me full of children. I’ll stop sending cunty texts that I’m leaving you every time I have PMS. Maybe she’s right, it’s ending. We’ll be friends. She’ll marry a rich guy. Too bad. You turn 40 and start making a little dough, your dad dies, your cat dies, you realize the only thing that matters is taking care of someone else. At that moment there’s a pretty girl in your house. You want to take her out to a cabin in a meadow somewhere. The smell of her neck makes you want to merge with her on a cellular level. Forgive everything. Work hard make money change the tires and cut the grass forever if she was just there and it sure feels like it was meant to be but it isn’t. Nothing’s meant to be. The universe isn’t even cruel, just random. And you lost. The work hard part will be there. But the coming home to someone: you’re fucked. Now and forever. Your kid’s college fund money chopped up into eighty bucks after tip until they pass some new sex trafficking law and then to the robots. Plus she’d bug the fuck out of you after 3 weeks. Who are you kidding.

I’ll never be a young man again and soon I’ll be dead. Let’s face it: I have nothing to live for. I exist because my sudden death would make other people sad. I’m of service to other alcoholics who are probably lying and using me. Showing my letters to the parole board. Having me meet their rehab counselor so they can get checkout privileges and go smoke speed. I’m alive to not ruin my mother’s life with my suicide. I’m alive to contribute to the tax base by working diligently until my body is broken. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. And now my watch begins– and it keeps fucking going and going and going. At least the Night’s Watch can suck each other’s dicks. At least the rent’s free.

Shit’s bad, then it’s good, then it’s bad. It all doesn’t matter. You can attach feelings to anything. Money, women, food, body image, whateverthefuck. I have more money than I’ve ever had. I feel poorer than ever. I’ve gotten better pussy than any man on Earth. Young Vietnamese girls coming over fucking me raw for hours and then moving in because they like my stupid web site and non-best-selling ebook. The unsurpassable pussy dream. Now I fight for an obese Mexican to let me get a middle finger in her yoga pants after a walk around the duck pond. Doesn’t matter.

Wherever I go would be a prison. But even as I’m typing the feeling passes. It’s enough to go out back, see the grass toss in the wind. Hear the hummingbirds. Their crazy one note flute chirp like blowing in a tiny bottle. Didn’t know hummingbirds could sing until I was 40. Imagine what else is out there. This is enough to live for. To see even one bird, one cloud. Know for one moment you are part of God’s creation. But Jesus Christ do I need some pussy.

You used to own a house. You used to have a pension. Now every ad is DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH SAVED FOR RETIREMENT. Check this chart by age. Yes, fuckstick, it’s better to have money than nothing; I’ve been briefed. They want you to start saving at 20. Why not 10. Why not as you’re squeezed of a slimy cunt, your mother’s screams still echoing off the tiles. Two commissioned salesmen from Morgan Stanley catch you. Explain compound interest and logarithmic growth. Hand waves over the assumption that the stock market will climb forever.

It’s coming to a head. Now I’ll invest in 55 gallon drums of water. Old Kalashnikovs that fire after you drop them in a swamp. Manacles and whips for the junior high school girls I’ll capture the very instant shit hits the fan. Chain them up in back of a taco truck, take it up into the Angeles Crest and from there up to Banff. Somewhere there’s a river and meat. Josef Fritzl it into my old age until one of my sons gets bad enough to kill me. I’m too compassionate is my problem. I could never torture anybody, rape anybody, enslave anybody. Those will be the key skills of the new world. The way coding is now.