Friday, December 26, 2008
I liken it to a well-crafted pop song. You know, first single has to be a club hit, second single has to be a sappy ballad.
This is an amazingly executed second single.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
We'll call her Emily because that's her real name and she probably won't read this. She's a pretty UCLA girl with blonde hair and thick thighs. Works as a paralegal. Thinks Obama is the second coming. She's smart, somewhat articulate, and very sweet. A girl you might share a textbook with in English class and secretly masturbate to. Not arm candy, but candy.
We make plans to go to Cabo, an overpriced Mexican-themed watering hole that she suggests. It's one of those friendly neighborhood places with unfriendly prices: Come on down and watch the game and get fucked in the ass!
And I do. But we have a good time together. Lots of smiling, flowing conversation. No thinking of what I have to say next. We flirt. We move closer. We find ways to touch each other. All that amazing date stuff that fills you with that hot feeling of anticipation.
We make out in the bar. She uses too much tongue, probably because she thinks it's sexier. For the most part she's a good kisser, though.
Things start to decompose soon after.
"I want to feel your tongue on my clit."
I joke that my oral skills need work. She tells me to practice signing the alphabet with my tongue and then pulls me in for a deep kiss to demonstrate in my mouth.
She licks the head of her beer bottle. Sucks on the neck.
"I'd rather suck on something else."
She asks me how big my dick is. She brags she has no gag reflex and can deepthroat at least eight. She puts her fingers down her throat to show me. She tells me girth doesn't matter much to her. She says it's all about length. She needs someone that can hit the back of her wall and make her squirt all over the place. Things didn't work out with her last few boyfriends because they weren't big and couldn't fuck her enough.
"How much sex do you want?"
"At least six times a day. I usually end up just using my expensive vibrator."
I chalk all of this up to the alcohol and the fact that I can be pretty irresistible sometimes, especially when I'm well-dressed with a few drinks in me. But still, something's not right. Even the sluttiest of girls I've encountered have shown some signs of resistance, some uh-uh-you-can't-have-this playfulness even though we both know that I could. Never has a girl just put it out there like this. You'd think it'd be refreshing to circumvent the bullshit, to not play the games.
But it's not.
At least not in this dynamic. I don't want that for something as deliberate as a date. Give me the tension, the prolonging, the desire. Don't jump from first gear to fifth. Don't go from hors d'oeuvre to buffet. Let me earn your heat, because it will feel a million times better when I get it. I don't want it if you leave it lying around like roadkill, if you offer it up like Dead Sea lotion at a mall kiosk. Because then it's worthless.
Pussy's only as good as the frustration that goes with it.
She goes to the bathroom before we leave. I hang around and watch highlights from the Cowboys/Giants game. Three minutes becomes five, five becomes eight, eight becomes ten. She finally comes out of the bathroom. Her hair is messy. She fixes it in a Corona mirror.
"You were in there for a minute."
"What'd you do, rub one out?"
"How did you know?"
"What? You mean you actually..."
She masturbated in the bathroom.
And then she says this with a smile, a glimmer in her eye:
"No one's ever asked me that before."
Translation: I've done this A LOT and I think you're special for figuring it out.
At this point I don't know what the fuck I'm feeling. Am I disgusted? Am I flattered? I mean a bathroom pussy rub is unprecedented, but how responsible am I for that pussy rub? Did I turn her on that much or is she just that much of a sexual creature?
One thing's for sure: my dick is not as hard as it should be.
We walk back to my car. I put my arm around her and try to be romantic and flirty like we were earlier. I'm still clinging to the hope that there's something more there. She's pretty, she smells like Bath and Body Works, and I just dropped sixty fucking dollars at a bar I'd never set foot in. Please be more than another story to tell.
I ask her if she wants to smoke some weed. She tells me she's dangerous when she smokes, that she always has to fuck when she's high. It's her point of no return. I have to see this for myself, of course.
Click here to see what happened.
I. Am not. Lying. This girl transforms. Becomes fucking possessed. No longer can she speak. The only words I can extract from her are "... fuck... me...", rasped in a sedated voice.
"I'm not fucking you."
"... fuck... me..."
"I'm twenty-five-years old. I am not having sex in my car."
"... fuck... me..."
"I can't even fit in the back seat!"
She leans back in the passenger seat and spreads her legs. Her boots kick against my windshield, steering wheel, volume knob, trying to find a foothold. Once she's comfortable she starts to rub her pussy. Her eyes roll back in her head. I watch her, more interested than turned on. I feel like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters when Sigourney Weaver levitates off the bed.
She takes my hand and puts it down her pants.
I have never felt a vagina this strong in my life. It feels alive. I can swear it's breathing. There are noises like the digestive sounds you sometimes hear your stomach make. The loud ones you hope no one mistake for a fart.
"... don't... stop..."
I don't. I increase my intensity, depth. Three fingers to the hilt. I'm tickling the fleshy knob at the back of her vagina. She starts to pant. Moan. Her head lolls. I see a Mexican guy walking his dog outside. It looks like he's watching us.
"There's a Mexican guy walking his dog outside. I think he's watching us."
A sharp breath. I feel her vagina expand like a tunnel. It farts. She ejaculates. She takes my fingers out and sucks the cream and juice off of them, which is yeah, pretty hot.
Then she puts my hand back down her pants again.
"... don't... stop..."
This goes on for two more orgasms with no sign of ending. I try to joke with her, engage her in conversation.
"I remember when this song came out. I was in eighth grade."
"... fuck... me..."
She reaches for my dick. I move her hand away. The truth is I'm soft. It's because right now I feel like I could be anyone -- a homeless man, a valet parker, the Mexican guy walking his dog. She doesn't want me because I impressed her, because I charmed her, because I made her blush and smile. None of that means shit. Everything that came before she did is moot.
All I am to her is metacarpals. It's insulting and ego-bruising.
Another thing that bothers me is she doesn't even ask if I have a condom. I love raw sex as much as the next guy, but when a rubber isn't even a factor in the pre-sex talk then that's a sign to holster your cock. You don't know who the fuck she's let up in her. Probably the next guy. And the next guy's next guy. And Jamal and all his boys.
"Let me take you home."
"I can walk."
I drive her back to her apartment. I offer to walk her to her door. That's me being pathetic again.
"No, I'm fine."
"No, come on."
"No no no. I'm good."
She says it like a kid who wants his mom to drop him off two blocks from the party. I'm-a-colossal-slut-and-I-don't-want-my-roommates-to-see-me-with-another-random-guy behavior. Or maybe she's got another guy lined up for after me. Who knows.
She gets out of the car and walks away. No thank you. No good night. No hug. No I had a nice time. Just boots on pavement.
And that's it.
I've told this story to a few people today. Girls are disgusted. Guys are disgusted I didn't do anything. Me, I'm just disappointed.
Promising girls, I've learned, are anything but.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The obvious rhyme is my cock
I can shoot on you like a glock
Got me all pointy like the ears on Spock
I'm down like stocks
And I won't leave a mark
We can play all day
like retards in a park
In the light
or in the dark
I'll make you hurt
until it smarts
Until the end
from the start
Pound on you
like my heart
Push in you
like a cart
like a Bart
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
There is no adjective to describe what it feels like to be flaked on by a girl you don't want to be seen with in public.
That's what I've been reduced to. I know I'm pathetic. I know I'm better than that. But the sky is getting gray and the weather is getting cold and staring over at an empty couch cushion just doesn't seem natural. I even made my apartment smell like cinnamon. What the fuck for?
You know, they make these pills -- Viagra, Levitra, whatever -- to make your dick hard and up your sex drive, but they don't make anything that does the opposite. I want something that will make me not give a fuck about anything with a vagina. I want to be injected with apathy so I don't have to play these bullshit games anymore, so I don't have to engage myself in these silent tennis matches with these extra hole-havers. Take away my sex drive, my interest in pussy, and I'll be the most productive motherfucker on this planet.
Until then I'll just watch the cursor blink.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
But you're not.
It's like driving a BMW and living in a trailer. You go back to your singlewide and get swallowed by your insecurities. Alcohol is a gift and a curse, my friends. A gift and a curse.
It's time to make this morning tomorrow.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
And the odds are worse.
I like going on dates though. The hard part is finding someone to go on them with. I'm to the point now where I feel that if I have a shred of a connection with someone I have to pursue it. It's a fossil dig. I found a bone chip. Let's bring out the crew and look for the skeleton. If someone's attractive enough, not completely stupid, and has more than one thing in common with me -- at least two -- then I'm good. I'll put up with the rest. Nevermind that I feel I can do better, that I deserve better; I'm not going to find it. And I refuse to look for it. I will not be one of those must-have-a-mate people. I don't even want a girlfriend. Just someone to smile with every now and then.
Sometimes I look in the mirror until my face doesn't feel like it's mine. Ever done that? Where you just stare until you can't believe this assembly of flesh and bone is you. It's like repeating a word until it sounds weird. It doesn't feel right. But it's the truth. Sometimes I do that and I wonder what's wrong with me. I see all these guys with pretty girls, girls I would settle for in a heartbeat, and I don't see how they came to be. I try to figure out their backstories. How they met. How he won her over. Status and money are usually a factor. Brains and personality are usually not. Looks? They only matter if the guy is exceptionally good-looking or exceptionally not.
This town has no soul but it has a price.
Still, some connections are authentic -- as rare as they are. These are the people I envy. I miss what it feels like to have a hand-hold mean something. To stare up at a ceiling and talk about nothing. To kiss just to kiss without sex as the goal. All the stuff that makes you swirl like Soft Serv. The stuff you can never fully articulate, like someone just asked you to define a word you only know how to use.
It's funny. As warm as it is out here, I have never felt more cold.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
I'd rather be a sniper.
"But I went down on you", she says as I try not to stare at the big, reddish brown bush between her legs. It looks like Will Ferrell's armpit. I met her at a Halloween party two weeks ago when she had makeup on and I was significantly under the influence. That's not to say she's ugly now; just not what I remembered her to be.
I don't have an answer that's not bluntly honest, so I just shrug. I want to tell her that going down on a cut penis is not the same as going down on a hairy vagina, especially a hairy vagina that I'm not familiar with (I have to be animal-horny to do that). The difference is night and day -- strolling down a sunny street versus hacking your way through an uncharted jungle. See, dicks are out there, flopping around, airing out. Vaginas are on the inside, festering, collecting sweat. You can't see everything that's happening with a vagina. There could be Vietcong.
Oral sex, like most things in life, involves a double standard. And, also like most things in life, that double standard favors the males. There's a good reason for this though: a dick in the mouth is a natural progression in the hierarchy leading to sex. The pre-coital blowjob is strictly utilitarian. Most girls only do it to ensure maximum hardness and deep penetration. They suck dick for selfish reasons.
So why do they get offended if we don't reciprocate?
A tongue on the pussy is a gesture. A bonus stage. A thank you card. It's something you do when you're very fucking horny or after your girlfriend has made you a nice dinner and cleaned up the kitchen. It can also be an apology (I've licked to atone for whiskey dick). What it is not is matter of fact. Going down on a girl is significantly more difficult than her going down on you. The positions, the muscles involved. I've actually strained one of my tongue connector thingies during a forty minute, must-make-her-come session. It was worth it.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, all oral sex is not created equal. Especially not on the first night. Perhaps it should be. But a guy's gotta be able to screen.
And he can't do that if he needs a machete.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
-- shit was cheaper
-- you could execute anyone at will
-- parking wasn't such a bitch
-- pedestrians had no right of way
-- people were considerate
Until then, all it has going for it is the weather. Goddamn me for being so stubborn and knowing I have what it takes. Sometimes I hate myself.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
-- I think she's looking at me...
-- She wasn't looking at me...
-- It's already 12:30?!
-- Keep it open or close it out?
-- "Close it!"
-- This is my motherfucking jam!
-- I hate this fucking song.
-- Oh shit! No they didn't!
-- "I know you want a cigarette. You don't have to pretend you like my arms."
-- Where did all my cigs go?
-- Text messaging...
-- "I'm gonna go jack off. Peace."
Monday, October 20, 2008
*Most people will cite the loaded gun, There's Something About Mary scene to counter this hypothesis, but anyone who's ever had sex knows that a nut in the hand is worth negative two in the bush.
Monday, October 13, 2008
That's the manager at El Pollo Loco telling me I'm not allowed to save my cup for free refills.
"I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"You have to get new cup every time."
"Oh... no, this is from earlier. I was here for lunch."
"I can't... you can't--"
"I can't what?"
"I saved this from earlier. Same day."
He pauses for a moment, frustrated. He wasn't expecting a fight. Unfortunately for him, I'm stubborn when it comes to shit like this. Shit that I shouldn't care about. Shit that he shouldn't care about.
This isn't the first time someone's said something to me. A couple weeks ago a behemoth manager with fat-woman-on-a-motor-scooter arms stopped me for the same thing.
"I'm going to order."
"... okay. The cup supposed--"
"This is from earlier. I was here for lunch."
Bullshit, of course, but it silenced her. Since then, I've taken to setting my cup on a table before I order and then refilling it afterwards to eliminate any problems that may occur at the register. To my surprise, it only worked for a few days. Motherfuckers caught on rapido.
"Hey! No! No do!"
"What? What'd I do?" as I gulp as much Diet Coke as I can.
I eventually capitulate because I don't want them fucking with my cole slaw, but I let the manager know that I'm not a happy camper.
"That's messed up, man. I'm in here all the time."
If I get caught filling a water cup with Diet Coke, okay. I can understand that. There's deception involved. Trickery. But the saved cup is like a backstage pass. The saved cup says, "Hey, this motherfucker is a loyal customer." It's a silent agreement: you allow me free refills and I'll keep coming back and overpaying for this pollo that is loco.
But maybe they see it as a slight at them. What if me refilling my cup for free is symbolic of me curb-stomping their souls? I know I get a teensy-bit miffed at the gym when motherfuckers think they can roll right past me without acknowledging the shred of authority that I have. That's when I stick it to them. Perhaps things would have been different if I pulled the manager aside and told him I respect his position, his yellow management shirt, and that I'd like to refill my cup with his blessing.
Which is why I now get my refills at Subway and migrate over.
Friday, October 10, 2008
"Does he expect me to fuck him?"
"You're going to his apartment. Yes."
A man's apartment is his sexual den. He is the lions and women are his Daniels. He wants to eat as many Daniels as possible. In the Hollywood version of Daniel's story, Daniel would have to rescue his estranged father from a Gladiator-esque lions den whilst battling a phobia of lions he's had since his dad left for war when he was a child and lions murdered his mother and sisters. His father, of course, would be the bait that gets him into the lions den to fight the final battle.
Watching a movie is the bait for girls.
See, girls don't want to go to the movies because they inherently want guys to spend money on them (oh how they do). They want to go to the movies to avoid the sexual bullshit that comes with watching a movie (a.k.a. sharing a couch with a functioning dick). If a guy takes a girl to a movie, chances are he'll pay attention to the movie because tickets cost so much. If he gets a girl to watch a movie at his apartment, he can throw on whatever the fuck (Transformers) while he tries to engage you in coitus.
Safety Tips for Girls Who Are Considering Watching a Movie With a Guy:
-- Ask what movie he wants to watch. If it's something scary, he wants to fuck you. If it's something romantic, he wants to fuck you. If it's pretty much anything, he wants to fuck you.
-- Ask him if he's seen the movie. If he has, then most likely he wants to fuck you. But he could just want to share a great film with you. Try to gauge his passion for the movie by asking generic questions like "What's it about?" and "What are the major themes?"
-- If the guy calls an audible when you get to his apartment and switches from American Beauty to Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2002, you should mention how much you wanted to watch American Beauty and plan an escape. "These warts have my pussy on fire" would probably work.
-- If you can't think of an escape, yawn and mention how late it is and how tired you are and how busy your day is tomorrow. Stress how you need to get a good night's sleep in your OWN bed.
-- On your way out, suggest alternative, cliched, non-apartment daytime activities that you'd see in a shitty romcom montage. Examples include hiking, cycling, sharing an ice cream, and him winning you a giant stuffed giraffe from an unwinnable carnival game.
-- If he sounds bummed, it's because he wanted to fuck you. If he sounds kind of bummed, it's because he wanted to flirt with you and be romantic and thread fingers and have sexual tension. and you're making him jump through bullshit girl hoops because you think he just wants to fuck. If he's into your shitty suggestions, he likes you way too much too soon and is likely deranged or emotionally wounded.
This is probably what you're looking for.
Monday, October 6, 2008
When someone tells you they’re going to Vegas you instantly picture that fucking sign. Then you picture fancy casinos, beautiful women, flowing alcohol, and assholes in suits. You do not picture yourself trudging down the shitty part of Las Vegas Boulevard in the midday heat with your belongings and an empty wallet.
Let me preface this story with some numbers:
The average lifespan of the American male is roughly 80.3 years. Let’s round that down to 80. That means you experience 4160 weekends in a lifetime, providing you die on a Monday. Of those 4160 weekends, you are in your twenties for 520 of them. I am a little over halfway through my twenties – almost 25 and four months.
I have 242 weekends left before I turn 30.
What does this mean – other than I use math for depressing reasons? I’m not sure. But it’s depressing. Especially after weekends like this.
“Do you want to go to Vegas next weekend?” Patrick asks me.
“Vegas? Why, what for?”
“Just to go.”
BDR stand for Big Dick Rick, one of Patrick’s gay clients. I dubbed him Big Dick Rick because it rhymes and it’s flattering and because he wears size fourteen shoes. He’s a good-looking Latin guy in his early forties. Lawyer. Real tan and friendly. Patrick got a hold of him a couple months ago, back when he was 180, and turned him into a 215 lb. powerhouse who is now obsessed with bodybuilding.
“Is he driving?”
“We got a room?”
“Do I have to pay?”
Patrick has a knack for leaving out important details, so I’m always wary when he asks me to do something. Not because I don’t want to hang out with him – he’s a fucking brother to me – but because I’m never sure what’s in store. A couple months ago he asked me to help him move a couch. He neglected to mention the couch was the biggest, heaviest fucking couch of all time and that professional movers had failed to move it the week before.
“But we’re bigger than them.”
Through much sweat and many f-words, we did the impossible and moved the goddamn thing up three flights of too-narrow stairwell. I had never felt more triumphant, not even after the time I defeated a shit that had my toilet clogged for five days.
Another time I went to his apartment expecting to have a drink and talk shit about people I like and don’t like. I ended up playing a board game his cunty roommate and her cuntier friend.
“You didn’t tell me we’d be playing Scattergories…”
“Come on. It’ll be fun.”
And it was. That’s what I love about Patrick. You go in expecting something, you get something else, and then you end up with something of value – even if you don’t appreciate it right away.
“Yeah, I’ll go.”
Two of my coworkers went to Vegas recently. One had sex in a pool and the other won $3000. I could match that, couldn’t I?
A week before we leave I receive an email from BDR telling me he’s glad I’m coming along and that he’s going to CC me on a Barack Obama mailing list.
I start to receive emails BDR is exchanging with a guy named Craig. Through these emails I learn the reason for the trip: we’re going to Vegas to spread the divine word of the almighty Obama. We will canvas neighborhoods, marching from door to door to make sure no one votes Republican. We’re not taking a trip to Vegas; we’re taking a trip that happens to be in Vegas.
We’ll be staying at Craig’s aunt’s house, by the way.
“Patty, what the fuck?”
“We’re doing Obama stuff?”
“Just for a little while. Then we can go out and have fun.”
“Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t want to come.”
He’s right. It’s not that I’m anti-Obama. I’m anti-politics. Fuck, I’m anti-everything. If there’s a group of people telling me I should do something, I don’t do it. Mostly to piss them off, but also because groups are dangerous. Crips, Bloods, Christians. It’s the sheep-like mentality. Groupthink. Everyone’s drinking the same Kool-Aid without stopping to consider the backwash. That’s how people get sick.
I want to back out of the trip, but everyone is expecting me and BDR has already made arrangements to borrow his boyfriend’s Grand Cherokee so we can all fit. It’s too late.
I’m locked in.
I start packing twenty minutes before we’re supposed to leave. Shoving shit into a duffel bag is actually a better term for it. I tend to overshove, if only because I want options. I know I’m not going to wear five t-shirts over a weekend – unless I manage to spill lots of shit on me, which is entirely possible – but what if the shirt I pack today is not the one I want to wear tomorrow? I’d rather have more than less, even if I’ll regret it later (which I always do).
There’s a problem though: my white going-out shirt is wrinkled. Both of them. So is my black going-out shirt. And my roommate forgot to leave his iron out. I panic for a moment. What am I going to wear? What will make me look good and show off my torso and get girls to look my away? I consider a stretch polo for a second and then feel like slapping myself for doing so. I rifle through my closet. No, no, no, maybe, no, no, why the fuck do I have this?
I decide on my brown going-out shirt because it matches my eyes and my hair. Yes, I know I’m gay.
I also pack pillows because I’m a finicky sleeper. Two shitty throw pillows from my couch back home. Pillows no one but me would find comfortable. MY pillows.
Patty picks me up in his new car that makes him feel like a G. I explain the pillows. He laughs his hearty, Patty laugh.
We go back to his apartment because he forgot something. What he forgot I don’t remember. Har har. From there we head over to BDR’s house in Hancock Park, bumping our heads to the new T.I. and talking about shit that would make you think we’re horrible, disgusting people. You know the saying “be yourself”? That doesn’t apply to us because our heads are so fucked up. If I ever get to create my own TV show, Patrick is going to write for it.
We get to BDR’s around 3:30. We were supposed to be there at 2. BDR comes out to greet us sans shirt. I notice that he has long nipples, almost like the tip of a bottle you’d feed a newborn kitten with. I’m not sure if he’s shirtless because he’s proud of his physique or if it’s because he wants to impress me. He’s made some suggestive remarks in the past, all of which I shrug off and say “Oh, BDR…” to. Perhaps, in his head, this is the weekend of my seduction. The weekend I realize that cock should be a healthy part of my balanced breakfast.
Gay guys love straight guys because we present a challenge. We are the hardest difficulty setting in life’s video game and therefore the most rewarding. If a gay guy bags a straight guy, he may as well chop off his head (you know which one) and mount it on his wall, because that is a fucking achievement.
“I love this cock, Chad! Where did you get it?”
“Well, I was out in the woods one day when I heard a rustling in the leaves…”
BDR ushers us inside his nice, wooden-floored, central air-conditioned house to meet the people we’ll be stuck with in a car for at least five hours. A short, mostly-white guy with black man’s hair rises to shake my hand, a lascivious grin on his bony face. He wears a ringer t-shirt that says Obama ‘08.
“I’m Craig. Nice to meet you,” he says in a stereotypical gay voice.
Craig. From the annoying emails I’ve vanquished to my spam box. I shake his hand and decide he’s only mildly flamboyant. It’s not until later that I realize he reminds me of Chris Kattan’s homosexual doppelganger.
Laura, a fair-skinned woman with reddish hair, remains seated. Wan smile, weak handshake. She’s librarian-quiet with an air of silent judgment, like she’s keeping score on a chalkboard in her head. She reminds me of one of those average-looking housewives you’d see in some amateur picture gallery on the internet – one with an asshole that’s too brown and a pussy that’s too red.
Either way, I want to fuck her.
It’s 3:45 and I’m eager to get the show on the road. Unfortunately the law of meeting new people dictates you must bullshit with them, so I’m forced to listen and smile and agree with everything. Craig spends an unhealthy amount of time talking about Obama and half-jokes about how our hard work this weekend is going to turn Nevada blue. I smile and nod, all the while thinking about how me and Patty are going to get fucked up and gamble our asses off. Should we get hookers? No. That’ll cut into our massive winnings. Besides, women will be all over us anyway. Will the brown shirt look good on my floor?
We leave at four. Patty sits up front with BDR. I get crammed into the back with Craig and Laura. I have to hunch myself in like I’m flying Southwest.
It takes us forty-five minutes to get to the freeway. This is normal in Los Angeles.
Craig asks me what I do and I tell him I’m a personal trainer like Patrick. I don’t tell him I’m a writer because the same shit always happens when you tell someone you’re a writer. They ask you what you write. You tell them. They ask a follow-up question that neither of you care about. You answer. They mention they know somebody that’s a writer that’s more successful than you. You smile and tell them that’s awesome. They say something along the lines of, “Yeah, writing’s tough. I hope it all works out for you.” You tell them thanks. End of conversation.
This happens every fucking time. Every. Fucking. Time. Plays out like a script.
Traffic is just as bad on the freeway as it was in the city. We could have dodged it if we left on time, or even just a little earlier, but the universe is never on your side when you have somewhere to be.
Patrick and I start to text each other to pass the time. He tells me he hates Craig’s voice. I tell him I hate Craig. I text people I wouldn’t normally text and ask them how they’re doing. Only a handful text back. This bothers me because I make it a point to always text back unless I’m mad at the person or trying to spite someone who hasn’t answered my previous texts. It’s just good textiquette.
BDR announces it’s time for his next meal and we need to find an In-N-Out. We passed an In-N-Out truck earlier and it made him hungry. In-N-Out sucks compared to Burger King, by the way. All of you non-California people who have only heard about it can take it off that pedestal you’ve placed it on because it’s nothing fucking special. California people, eat a Whopper and shut up. The only good thing about In-N-Out is it’s open late and cheap as fuck. The milkshakes are decent too. But that’s it. The French fries are shit, no matter how much garbage you dump on top of them, and the burgers are tiny and unremarkable. Like Asian dicks (sorry, couldn’t resist).
Craig busts out his laptop and gets on the internet to look for the closest In-N-Out. He has some expensive, mega wi-fi thing attached to his USB port and can apparently get internet anywhere. Good for Craig. Not so good for me, as I will come to find out. He can’t find the nearest location, but he does find the number to the In-N-Out hotline. I call it up. A real person answers. No shit.
“Hi, I’m looking for the closest In-N-Out.”
“Where are you?”
“On the freeway.”
“I don’t know.”
BDR tells me where we are and I relay the information to the In-N-Outperator (clever, huh? I just came up with that). The operator tells me we need to stop in Azusa.
Being from the east coast, California was always a magical place in my mind. Land of sunshine and opportunity. Home to beaches and bimbos. Then I’d meet the occasional fat white trash bitch who said she was from California and it’d confuse me. How was this possible? It wasn’t until I traveled to some of the outer lying areas that I realized how trashy some of these SoCal towns are – one shitty burg blurring into the next.
And that’s what Azusa is. Rednecks and Mexicans. It’s likely our nation’s inevitable race war will start in a town like this.
What really sucks is Azusa is only 30 miles east of LA. At this point we’ve already been in the car for two hours and it feels like we’re halfway to Vegas. My shoulders hurt and my ass and back are covered in sweat from the leather upholstery. Leather, I’ve noticed, is one of those things that’s nice to talk about but a bitch to deal with. I’ll spare you a simile.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Anyway, we hit it off. I had lit her Parliament Light on the smoking deck and mentioned it's the number one cigarette in Hollywood because everyone can do cocaine bumps out of the recessed filter. She giggled a cute, coquettish, overly-girly giggle and we ended up making out all night and singing the lyrics to Chattahoochee in each other's ears, trading off after every line.
"Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee..."
"... it gets hotter than a hoochie coochie."
"We laid rubber on the Georgie asphalt..."
"... we got a little crazy but we never got caught."
I drove down to Hermosa Beach a couple weekends later to see her. I have never received so many penile compliments in my life. Pretend a dickhole is a mouth and imagine it smiling. That's what my penis was doing.
There was a problem though.
"Baby, you're bleeding."
"I just had my period last week."
"Well it's back."
She fell asleep with her head on my chest. I woke her up with doggystyle.
"Yes, yes! Harder, HARDER!"
"You like that cock?"
"I love it."
"Big enough for you?"
I had gone too deep. When the pain didn't subside after two days, she went to see her gyno, who gave her painkillers and suggested lube. I went to Hustler's of Hollywood the next day and picked up a tiny bottle. I made sure to specify that I was looking for vaginal lube so the slutty-looking rocker clerk wouldn't think I was gay.
"Do you want water or silicon-based?"
"I don't know. Whatever's good and not expensive."
She picked up a tiny bottle of something that cost ten dollars.
"This feels great on my pussy."
"Cool. Can we gift wrap it?"
"Holly, do we gift wrap?"
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding."
The girl came up to see me a week later. We had drinks with her friends at their house on a hill in Echo Park and then hit up Happy Ending's again. I stayed soberish because I had french-kissed my toilet the night before. She got sloshed. I ushered her back to my apartment at 12:30, after I bought her a chicken sandwich at Burger King and watched her high-five the backpacked-brontosaurus in the middle of the restaurant.
She french-kissed my toilet. I held her hair. She sobered up. We had sex again.
"Oh my God, baby. You're so fucking wet."
"Shit. You're bleeding."
Like an asshole, I made a remark about how expensive it is to dry clean a down comforter. She started to cry. I held her and hushed her and apologized. We fell asleep tangled like a retard's shoelaces.
Sex in the morning. Blood again.
"I don't know what's wrong with me."
We kind of cut things off after that. Not because of la sangre, but because of my unwillingness to commit to anything more than silent promises of under-the-influence fucking.
DVD chapter-skip to last night.
We reconcile, reunite, and go to a bar in Los Feliz for her friend's moving-to-New York party. Vodka flows, good times are had.
"I have something to tell you."
"Not right now."
"Come on. You can't just say that and not tell me."
"I'll tell you later."
"Tell me now."
"Fine... I'm getting surgery next week."
"Surgery? For what?"
"You know how I was bleeding?"
"... I had a tumor on my uterus."
She had a tumor on her uterus that she didn't know about. That she wouldn't have known about had it not been for the courageous efforts of my dick. Now I don't know much about the schematics of the vagina, but I don't think this is possible for two reasons.
A: From what I remember of 10th grade Health, the uterus is way up there.
B: I pack heat, but I am not John Holmes.
But I take her word for it. She's drunk, so maybe she means her cervix or her vulva or some other vaginal part that would be on a test, multiple choice or write-in. Either way, I feel like a fucking hero. Like a lone firefigher who prevented a vaginal 9/11.
And then I fuck it up:
"God... I hope I can still get a hard-on later."
"... I don't think you were supposed to say that."
"Yeah. I probably shouldn't have."
Sunday, September 14, 2008
I'm not going to lie, though: I feel kind of G-ish. Somebody who's regularly featured in Us magazine and other tabloids reached out to be MY e-friend -- although I'm pretty sure I owe it to our one mutual online friend. It's not like she searched for me and spelled my hard-to-spell last name right. But still...
I was pretty fucked up last night and when I'm pretty fucked up I always hop online to see what's up. Now, I'm almost positive I posted something on her wall. Nothing rude or vulgar or questionable enough to be perceived as so. I think I mentioned Ralphs and her new TV show and then spent the next five minutes proofreading and editing the comment to make sure everything flowed and didn't sound drunkish or creepy. Grammar is the one thing that doesn't change when I'm faded. You should see my text messages. Apostrophes, commas, semicolons, etc. I am on point with my English.
The comment wasn't on her wall this morning. And that bothers me because I spent time on that shit. There is no way she could have deleted it for being inappropriate.
So why did she delete it?
A quick list of possibilities:
-- She was embarrassed by me posting on her wall.
-- She was embarrassed by my comment because she doesn't want people knowing she goes to Ralphs late.
-- My comment was more than one line and looks inadvertently creepy because it's obvious I wasn't shooting from the hip, therefore making said comment seem disingenuous and a bit try-too-hardish, therefore making me look more like a fan than a friend.
-- Her status update says "Still trying to figure out Facebook" and she accidentally deleted my comment.
What's strange though is I checked my own wall and there is no record of me ever posting on her wall. Did I waste precious minutes of my hazy state scripting a comment that I never posted? Or does Facebook delete the record of a deleted comment to save you face and embarrassment if someone decides to e-stalk you and laugh to themselves that you had a comment deleted?
What do you guys think?
And yes, I realize I am way too fucking overanalytical, but that's what will put food on the table one day.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The not a fucking chance line is the line to the right -- the line I'm always in, if I choose to wait in line (most of the time I go somewhere else). It consists of unconnected guys, minorities, and girls no one would buy a drink for. For some reason, the people who wait in this line cling to the hope that there's a chance they may get in. You can leave, get shitfaced at another bar, come back, and the same motherfuckers will still be waiting in this line:
"It's been 90 minutes. I gotta get in now."
Wrong. You'll never get in. You're actually doing the club/bar/lounge a favor by standing in this line. People will walk by and see you waiting like a chump and they'll automatically think this establishment is the shit. So cool and exclusive. They'll tell their friends and then their friends will tell their friends and everyone will come to see if they can get in, if they're cool enough, if they pass the test.
The might get in line, the line to the left, consists of Persians, Armenians, people who know somebody who knows somebody (two-degrees motherfuckers), and thin-enough girls who wear a shitload of makeup to compensate for their lack of beauty. These people look down on the not-a-fucking-chances with a sad mixture of pity and derision -- like they feel sorry that we're dumb enough to still be waiting in line, but it's also kinda funny at the same time. Plus they wouldn't want to party with us anyway. These cocksuckers wear casual-ish clothes to project an elite, too-cool-to-give-a-fuck image, even though they spend more time thinking about their outfits than the not-a-fucking-chances who take the time to dress up and look nice. They check their cell phones and fake watches and faux huff and puff if they don't get in in under ten minutes.
"Where the fuck is Farzad? Why are we not in yet?"
A lot of these assholes get in. Especially the girls with bad teeth and blonde hair. As long as their faces are intact they're okay.
The don't have to wait line is not a line so much as it is a cluster. They gather in front of the velvet rope and name-drop without trying to sound too obvious.
"Is Tyler working?" "Kris told me to stop by." "I'm here for Shahram's party."
Some conferring will occur between the doormen to make sure that bullshit isn't being spouted, and then the velvet rope will unclip and lift. Ed Hardy apparel and smarmy, slicked-back Euro haircuts will enter and you can almost picture the size of the money clip in their back or side pockets. You may also see an oldish man or someone who looks like complete shit and try to place them with the appropriate TV show or shitty band. Some of them are with hot women. Most of them are with women you talk shit about ("Bitch looks like...") but would totally fuck if they smiled at you. Secretly you wish you were part of this non-line. Not because you necessarily want to be a personality or pseudo-celeb, but because you want to feel like a G and look like a baller in front of all these assholes waiting in line. And you may.
But we'll just talk shit about you.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
We sat and flirted and I was somewhat charming and mostly self-deprecating. It was an odd dynamic, one of those situations where you have to hit on both girls equally so you don't alienate the one you have the best chance of fucking. The friend was the one I wanted, but an exchanged look between the two followed by a prolonged smile from the less attractive one -- the one with a reddish birthmark on her forearm -- gave away who I'd be sticking my dick in that night. Apart from our banter, there wasn't really anything that attracted me to her other than the fact that it was late and I felt like I should have sex with her because that's how you successfully end late nights. Everything about her was average. Not sexy, amateur porn average either. Just average average. Off-brand vanilla ice cream average.
SMASH CUT to doggystyle.
You remember Ghostbusters when they're in that ballroom and they've got Slimer with their proton guns and they open the trap for the first time and all of them have to squinch their eyes and turn their heads because the ray of light is so fucking bright and strong and dangerous?
Well that was me.
I had encountered ass smells before -- that stench of cheesy sweat that wafts up while your balls slap and make the sound of a retard clapping -- but never had I ever encountered something this epic. This was the Braveheart of ass smells. It was like Kraft Singles and Parkay Squirt Butter teamed up to create a fragrance no one wanted. Something too strong to be chalked up to a faulty showerhead and not enough Dove.
I continued fucking her, trying to block the smell with my hands. It reminded me of trying to suffocate an old man with a pillow, and then I thought about the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and then I thought about Jack Nicholson, and then large Native Americans and their B.O.
And then I felt my dick go limp inside of her.
She and her mouth were confident they could get me back into fighting form, but I knew better. She ended up staying the night because I can never find it in my heart to kick a girl out ("Do you want me to leave?" "Uh... if you want...") and I got no sleep. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. Thank God.
What sucks is that I came away from this looking like a chump. Nevermind that she was kind of homely and her ass smelled like a pit of hellbound souls. No, that holds no weight. She was going to gossip to her friend that I was a dud and they'd share a good laugh and turn me into an inside joke and tell their other friends about me when those friends questioned said inside joke and then turn it into an even bigger inside joke and now maybe I'll flash through her head for a nanosecond before she dies in a head on collision with a truck full of illegals or a BlackBerrying BMW owner.
Am I being too presumptuous?
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
She teaches AP English.
Naturally, I called her on it because that's how I am. She replied:
"too bad either way is right...google both...they both come up as correct. its like spelling blond or blonde or even better...grey or gray...thanks though for the tip...riiiiiiiight"
And then she replied again (five minutes later):
"yep...and i see you work at a gym in hollywood"
I'm 25 and I work a 16-year-old's job. Not because I can't do better, but because it gives me a chance to do what I want to really do, what I came out to LA for in the first place. Unfortunately, people often mistake this for a case of arrested development. Jeff's afraid to grow up. Jeff's afraid to get a REAL job.
I'm a gym employee. Not someone chasing his dreams.
This is what I replied with:
One way is more correct than the other. Also, blond/blonde has gender connotations. As far as my employment goes, sometimes you make sacrifices to go after what you really want. I'd say it's a lot harder to work my shit job than take the easy road and teach English in bumfuck Kentucky. But hey, that's you. By the way, you should be ashamed a gym employee had to correct you.
She deleted me from her friends list.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
"I could never drive one of those. They're so dorky-looking."
A gay guy with perfect stubble and a yoga mat chimes in.
"I drive a Prius."
"You know, it's not about looking cool."
"Well yeah, obviously."
He gets this look on his face like I'm an asshole, which I am. But if Priuses weren't about looking cool then why would he be offended?
Sarah attempts to inject some humor into the conversation with a jokey, pro-Prius comment. I say something about my '92 Subaru with 230,000 miles and an environmental bumper sticker on the back (thanks, Mom). The elevator doors open and we walk out.
Gay Yoga Guy keeps pace.
"Maybe you should think a little more about the environment."
What's funny to me is that the Prius is more about image than it is about the environment. It's the vegetarian's BMW. An avatar of awareness. And I'll tell you this: if I'm going to drop thirty Gs on a new car, it IS about looking cool. The environment can suck my dick. I'm not going to roll around in some glorified hatchback because it makes the air a tad bit cleaner. What's the point anyway? Some bum's just going to breathe it up before I can.
"Look, I'm not hating on you, man. It's just not for me."
"Don't knock it until you try it."
He huffs off. Sarah and I exchange looks. I know what she's thinking.
I have Prius envy.
Monday, August 11, 2008
-- Black, oversized Stars and Straps t-shirt or a wifebeater or a variation thereof
-- Gauged piercings
-- Soul patch or a goatee
-- Tattooed forearms that look like an Ed Hardy shirt
-- False sense of thuggishness
-- Zero brainpower
-- Angels fan
Basically any X Games-looking motherfucker that models himself after Travis Barker or Vanilla Ice 2.0.
And yes, I did get kicked out of a bar in Newport Beach last night for arguing with these jokers. I guess I wasn't welcome because they didn't recognize me from high school or something.
Maybe they would've let me stay if I landed a kickflip.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Saturday, August 2, 2008
When you're 25, you're too old to connect with younger girls and too young to be taken seriously by the older ones. Your failure with women is purely circumstantial.
"Oh, you're so cute! You're so smart! I love your muscles! But you're a baby!"
I've done nothing wrong except being born in '83. Nevermind that we hit it off and shared a couple moments. No. Fuck that. There are less rings on my trunk than there are on your bark. Therefore there is no room for my tree in your forest.
"I'm old enough to be your mother!"
"Why? Were you sexually active when you were 11?"
Why are women so self-conscious about the age thing? Do they feel perverted if they fuck a younger guy? Like cradle robbers? Violating whores? Or do they feel objectified? Lusted-after novelty-fucks. Because I have news: when you're a guy, every fuck is a novelty fuck. The stories we tell, what we share with our friends, there's always a hook.
"Dude, she used to play softball!"
Why even mention my age then? I don't. But if somebody asks me I feel I should answer truthfully -- which is a motherfucking mistake I won't make again. Maybe I'm honest because I'm from the east coast and have spent some time in the South. Maybe I'm just a sucker (this is closer to the truth). Either way, don't eye me and flirt with me and make me abandon my current prospect just so you can pinch my fucking cheek and ask me if I know who fucking Hall and Oates are. Because then my prospect gets jealous and leaves and I end up going home with my calloused hands.
And what the fuck are you doing at a dive-ish bar on Sunset anyway? Is it a game for you to brag to your friends about that baby who hit on you? About that thick-haired sweetheart you cockblocked? Because if that's the case then you win. The prize is yours. He's alone blogging at three-in-the-morning while you're in your nice apartment dreaming on your duvet, feeling good about yourself. You can wake up and check for lumps in the morning with a smile on your face. He'll wake up with a headache and a hard-on -- both in vain.
Thanks for the drinks though. That was real grown-up of you to pay.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
No, she didn't come home with me, but that's good because I have enough vodka in my system to fuel a thousand limp dicks. Groundwork was laid, though. Hands were adventurous. Tongues were slithered. And her breasts, my God -- like mostly-filled water balloons. Natural, too.
That's pretty ballin' for a trip to the bar.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
"Can I get some of those Magnums, please?" I say to the female clerk, injecting a hint of embarrassment into my tone so I don't come off as one of those cocksure frat types. It's bad enough I'm wearing my "There's no such thing as free pussy" shirt (it was a gift). Still, I can't help glancing at the girl behind me to gauge her reaction. She darts her eyes away a millisecond too late.
She was sizing me up. I feel like a G.
Magnums are more expensive than regular condoms. I don't know if this is to cover the cost of the extra latex or what, but you're essentially being penalized for having an above-average sized penis. It's like a handicap in golf. They also lack the fun and features of their little brothers. They aren't ribbed or extra-sensitive or heated. They don't play ringtones. They're just bigger. You can probably order them special online, but where's the practicality in that? People lack foresight when they're thinking with their foreskin.
Let's do some arithmetic:
$5.43 ÷ 3 = $1.81
A dollar eighty-one per lay. That's assuming you don't tear the condom, put it on inside out, or lose your hard-on before you can get it on.
I'm poor in all of these categories.
But $1.81. Shit. I can almost buy a half gallon of milk for that price. I guess it comes down to this: would I rather fuck or eat cereal? Seeing as how I'm all out of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I'd probably rather fuck.
I should go to the grocery store.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
You've popped your lonely bar guy cherry.
At the end of the night, your piss snakes its way down concrete.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
My manager pulls me into his office. He's drunk and there are bags under his eyes that rival Droopy the Dog's.
"You haven't been in a good mood today," he tells me, speaking slowly so as not to fumble his words. The way he says it suggests I've misbehaved, possibly thrown a chair or two. In reality, I'm just kind of quiet and distant. Nothing that affects my job. Members still enter. Parking still gets validated. Just with less personality.
And that's a problem.
See, I've set the bar high for myself. I'm animated, fun, flirtatious. I remember names. I'm a fucking mascot. Anything below mascot-level is epic, epic failure in the eyes of management. All other employees are allowed to be normal and cordial. I have to be loud and obsequious. I'm permitted two emotions when I'm on the clock: happy and happier. Traces of humanness, shades of grey, big no-nos.
The three seconds I spend checking in a member are infinitely more important than anything that's going on in my life. I'm responsible for making sure they feel wanted, needed, loved, even if they're just coming in to get a blowjob in the steam room. Because, aside from BJs in the mist, that's why people join gyms -- to be validated by its minimum wage staff. Now I'm not knocking on good customer service, but this isn't the fucking Sprint kiosk at the mall. A quick hi and enough of a smile should suffice. Except my company gives 110%. It says so on my name badge, right above my misspelled name.
"The members can tell something's wrong."
"You're compromising their experience."
My name badge also says that we never compromise the member experience. The problem isn't that I'm not doing my job; it's that I'm not doing it with enough oompf. I'm functioning, not entertaining. Jogging, not running. An A student getting an F for effort.
"I'm kind of dealing with some stuff."
"I understand, but we try to create an..."
He pauses for a second to think of the word.
"... atmosphere that's better than what they would get somewhere else."
I want to ask him if that's why we have buckets out to catch the water leaking from the celing. Instead I bite my tongue. In this moment, as much as I feel like quitting, as cinematic as it would be, I realize that it's going to be the same everywhere else. Blazes of glory are impractical, and most of the time they extinguish as soon as they ignite. It's a fun story for a couple days until you realize you're unemployed and rent is due. This is why the homeless have something interesting to say.
Still, it hurts me to an extent. This is society. This is life. I didn't have a lot of faith in humanity to begin with, but now I have less. What I don't understand is this blind corporate devotion. If my manager had sat down to speak to me one-on-one, as an individual, then fine, okay. But he sat down to speak to me on behalf of the company. A motherfucking ambassador. And that bothers me and makes me a little sad. I feel sorry for him, because he isn't a bad guy, by any means. Kind of dorky, but totally cool -- one of those Uncle Jesse, high school types. Foreigner, AC/DC, yeah!
It just feels like he's been brainwashed. Infected with Ebola.
To sit here and say the company this, the company that, it's bullshit. Everyone is expendable in a corporation, and to lay back and kick your feet up and think that this giant fucking entity genuinely cares about you and appreciates you as an individual, as a person, just because last month's numbers were boner-worthy, that's a fantasy. It's idol worship. A giant stone owl that will not protect you when the skies piss fire and the earth shits lava.
But, you know, I guess people need something to believe in.
I know I do.
"It's like putting feces in my mouth," she says.
This makes my heart do funny things. I go on Facebook and delete my blog link from my profile because I'm afraid I'll scare her off.
Our first date is on the Fourth of July -- apropos of fireworks. We grab drinks at El Compadre and hit it off. She's intelligent and beautiful, and even though she doesn't have brown hair I don't mind. I pay. She's the first girl in a long time to make me forget that I'm a cheap motherfucker who saves my fast food cups. $12 cocktails? Fuck it. She's smiling. I'm smiling. Her kisses are conservative with a dash of middle school tongue. My lips are too big for hers and I don't give a fuck. I'll adapt, she'll adapt, one of us will adapt. It's all negligible when butterflies are flapping poetic in the darkest pits of your stomach.
And I know you guys are going to think I'm a bitch, or that I catch feelings easily, or both, because of my post before last, but the truth is I don't. I guess I just have a knack for meeting girls I can't have, as much as she and I think (I think) both want the opposite to be true. She writes. She does comedy. She sees Batman with me at 12:38 on Thursday night. I hold her hand until we're both sweating and then I hold it some more. And it's not one of those one-sided hand-holds. No. She moves her thumb. Up and down. I squeeze. She squeezes. Fingers thread and jigsaw-puzzle together like the last two middle pieces of that giant red balloon you thought to be impossible days ago.
But it will never work.
His name is Nick and they have a history. Six years. Families know each other. Comfort has set in. Door-holding and face-brushing can't penetrate that. Only chip. I guess I'm not half the guy that stole my girlfriend away from me. How shitty it is to realize I'm only good enough to pay the tab.
Tonight, after the inevitable "what the hell is going on?" conversation sets in, I order a vodka diet coke.
"Strong as a motherfucker, please." The bartender nods, perhaps seeing what's going on in my eyes. Rachel orders champagne. I overanalyze this, of course. The alcohol brings me to the brink of tears, to the pinnacle of smiles. 90s rap plays and I do a pathetic dance and test her knowledge.
"Who sings this?"
Ouch. She knows. And that makes things sting even more. She makes the executive decision that we should leave. I order a Stella. Wallowing and far-off stares. I don't want to look at her because I don't want to tear. She goes to the bathroom and returns, looking at my beer before she looks at me. I call her out for seeing it as some hourglass. She says no, then admits to it. Exactly how many minutes does three-quarters of a beer equal?
I say things I probably shouldn't say. Examples:
-- My friends ask me how far we've gone. I tell them it's not like that.
-- I want to cook you dinner. I don't even cook. I don't even have pans. I should go to Target.
-- I want you to fall asleep with your head on my chest and complain that it's too big.
She looks at me with her brown eyes. Not as an equal, but as a puppy. I can't tell if she feels sorry for me or if she's just sorry that these things can't happen. Either way, it's a punch in the gut. My insides are an avalanche. Whatever was going to be, what could've been, will never be. It's over. Honesty claims another victim -- the most notorious serial killer of all time.
I take her home. Kiss her. Tell her she has to initiate things from now on. I'm not going to be the weirdo stalker guy. She disappears into her courtyard and I take a much needed piss by a tree. My kidneys hurt.
I drive home and light up in front my building. I feel like I'm too smart to succeed and too fragile to be. My heart aches like an Achilles.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
When you're drunk, things are quick and surreal -- like a green Mario Bros. pipe. Shit happens in a flash and whatever you remember in the morning is a greeting card memento. The beauty of drunkenness lies in the black person, take-me-as-I-am mentality. You say what you want, or what your dick whispers in your ear, and you don't give a fuck. You're playing the percentages with that slurred honesty that pours from your mouth. If you tell ten girls they're amazing and one girl swoons then you may as well be featured on the back of a Smirnoff bottle, because you are a fucking success story. It's always a hundred percent when your vision is blurred and your tongue is retarded.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Kimi dumped me on New Year's after succumbing to weeks of courtship by one of those lab indie-kids with an iPod full of no-name bands he secretly hopes find mainstream success so he can tell everyone he listened to them before they sold-out. Five years bartered for stolen kisses by the Bunsen burner and sweaty hand-holds. I'm still not over it. Especially when she didn't return a Happy Birthday text message. They were probably together at PF Chang's (I'm not sure if there's supposed to be an apostrophe there and I'm too lazy to google it).
There's this girl at the gym. Nineteen. Sweet, smart, funny, not a fucking headcase. Here for the summer from upstate New York. I originally wanted to just sleep with her, but we all know how plans work.
Things get a little heavy the first night. And then:
"I have a boyfriend."
Indie kid. In Italy for the summer. She feels guilty. I back off. She puts my hand on her breast. I go with it. Things heat up again. She compliments my penis. Has sex with me for three minutes. Makes me take my penis out. Apologizes a million times.
What the fuck.
Over the next two weeks, we hang out, spend time together. Flirting. Kissing. Touching. No sex, but that doesn't matter because I genuinely like being with her (plus there's an ill-timed period). She pushes me away a lot and mentions her guilt. Seconds later it's gone and she's back to tasting the Myoplex on my lips.
I catch feelings.
And just like that I'm the asshole interloper. Except I don't want a relationship or to replace her boyfriend. But I don't want to just fuck her. So what do I want? This is one of those tip-of-the-tongue situations where we think we know the answer until we realize just how far off we are. Something that elicits a lot of "uhh's". I stress to her that we should just have fun and go with the flow and not overthink or define things. Typical guy bullshit that translates to no-strings fucking, except this time it doesn't. Sex is desired, yes, but that's because I'm in possession of a penis. It's more of a necessity than a goal.
She tells me how much fun she has with me. Talks shit about her boyfriend ("He's a child..."). Tells me personal stuff. Says she likes me, misses me. Makes me feel warm inside. A brown-haired hearth in my colonial cottage.
And I continue to be pushed away.
"I'm sorry. I feel so guilty."
Things quickly go from being fun and challenging to frustrating and annoying. Hard-to-get becomes unattainable. On a level it's my fault for pursuing her. On a level it's hers for not establishing ground rules. I can't blame her for her decision, though. She's going with the angel on her shoulder instead of the devil. Still, you shouldn't lead the little red guy on if you intend on wearing that halo.
The shoulder-devil has feelings too. And not just in his pitchfork.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
I'm to the point now where I'm pretty much celebrity-desensitized. Dustin Diamond was the first celeb I saw (at Sundance last year) and I flipped my shit. I took a picture with Scott Speedman. Was awestruck by Gary Coleman. Now Djimon Hounsou can walk past me without receiving so much as a compliment lauding his Oscar caliber fence-rattling. New celebs usually yield an "Oh, cool." Examples of late: Jason Statham, Malcolm In the Middle.
But every once in a while...
It's usually a rapper that gets me all "Holy shit!" Jim Jones. Ghostface Killah. Jay-Z. This probably speaks to my (sub)conscious need to be validated by the black community. I don't know why, but I want the brothers to like me. Spike Lee would probably label me a racist for saying that.
Alessandra's in a loose hoodie and white terrycloth-ish pants. Her ass pops out like a sliced-in-half WNBA basketball, each hemisphere glued tight. Her neck is long like her legs. She reminds me of a sexy dinosaur -- a little bit of brontosaurus mixed with some velociraptor and a dash of T-Rex.
I'm in to work out, so I stalk my way behind the front desk to validate my parking and make idle chatter with my coworkers. Alessandra is busy filling out a guest form. I take a medium breath and approach her.
"Alessandra," I say a bit too confidently, like a veteran used car salesman. It's because I'm feeling good. Fresh off nine hours sleep, my hair is perfectly mussed and my arms look huge in my red thrift store t-shirt. Motherfucking G style.
She looks up absently.
"I'm a big fan." I offer my hand. She shakes it reluctantly with a semi-creeped look on her face.
"'Sank you," she manages in a voice more husky and exotic than I imagined. No smile. Nothing. She goes back to her guest form. It is at this moment that I feel like an idiot. I'm a big fan. Big fan. Big. Fan. What the fuck? She's famous for having pictures taken in her underwear. Does "I'm a big fan" translate to "I jack off to you"? Because I don't. I mean I'm not going to lie: I've sprung semis to her on my mother's toilet (she keeps a lot of catalogs in her bathroom), but I have never stroked in her honor. My masturbation habits have come a long way since beating it to nipple-slips and mostly-nudes.
I tell everyone what I did. My manager shakes his head and spouts a bunch of trite maxims that really don't apply to this particular situation. Something about me doing for me instead of someone else. Then Foreigner comes on and he mentions how much they rock.
I do my cardio and dwell. How the hell are you supposed to tell your favorite Victoria's Secret model that you think she's amazing? I still don't know, not that I've been sitting around and brainstorming answers or anything (just a little).
But dream girls can't coexist with reality. The fantasy has died.
"Hi, Jeff. I'm here in my underwear, the ones you like from page 8A. I wore them just for you. There's a big ray of light behind me and I can't stop smiling because you're so handsome and I think you're a genius and love your dimples and want you in the worst way possible. Let's hop on a jet and go to the tropics and fuck in the breakers. Condoms aren't necessary."
That will never happen. And now I can't pretend that it ever will. Sucks, doesn't it? It's alright. I'll find someone else to worship. I'm thinking...
Thursday, April 24, 2008
I am the Michael Jordan of low-level employment. I have been since I was sixteen. And I'm okay with that. A little compensation would be nice, though. Something other than verbal praise.
A dialogue with the new guy:
"I've been with the company about three months. Transferred from Chicago."
"How much were they paying you there?"
"Eight, but now I'm getting eight-fifty."
"You get eight-fifty?"
"Yeah, that's what [manager's name] said. Why, what do you get, nine?"
"You get eight? How long have you been here?"
"Since last July."
"Oh... Well maybe I'm wrong..."
An extra fifty cents per hour would net me $60 more a month. That's a bill. Or a trip to the grocery store. It's not about that though. It's not about those extra quarters. It's about what those extra quarters represent.
A kick in the fucking teeth.
I used to think athletes were greedy. Not the case. All these big signing bonuses and record-breaking contracts have nothing to do with money and everything to do with worth. They'll never spend all that money. And it doesn't matter. They want what they think they deserve, a sum that's representative of their talents. Plus, you know, when you're super-rich, money and assets become a game. Points. It's about having more than the next guy. Sending him back to the change machine to get more tokens. Those are the guys lined up around the new, expensive arcade games.
I'm the guy playing Tekken 3 in the corner, trying to see how far I can get on one coin.
I'm not going to pretend my job is important. I work desk. Management can spout all the team-building, corporate bullshit rhetoric they want about how the member experience starts with me. At the end of the day, I'm a pair of hands and a voice. I scan barcodes and validate parking and answer phones. I know my fucking role.
But goddamn if I'm not good at what I do.
You should see how I reach over my coworkers, how I update billing, how I flick my fingers across the keyboard. The clicks, the clacks -- tiny orgasms of efficiency. Multi-tasking has never been so sexy. Or so beautiful. My technique, my hustle, my enthusiasm. Hell, I even remember names. Members stare in awe like it's the 1800s and I'm a negro who can read.
"Wow. Very good."
"Thankyamuch, suh. Been practicin', I have."
"Here's my parking."
"Swing low, sweet char-iot..."
Yes, I have a functioning brain. Yes, It interferes with my ability to wear a smile at ALL times, even though the employee handbook requires me to do so. As much as I want to like my simple, shitty job, I'm mentally incapable of doing so. Especially when the 17-year-old brat in the Kids Club is making more than I am.
"I can't wait to go tanning!"
I asked for a raise a couple months ago and, with a straight face, I was told that because I'm such a stellar employee I could possibly qualify for a fifty-cent boost. I laughed and apologized for doing so.
But I'm not in a bad position. It sure as hell beats working at the Coffee Bean with all the other asshole writers (I think). I feel like I have a better chance of being "discovered". After all, I'm exposed to a lot more industry players on a consistent basis. I can forge relationships and build rapport. I'm living on hope. Trying to, at least.
Most days schadenfreude keeps me going. Besides unprotected sex, there's nothing more pleasurable than telling some South Beach d-bag in an Ed Hardy cap and a pair of Tom Fords he has to pay the guest fee. You can practically hear the rusty train wheels screak to a stop in the stubbled desert that is his head.
Sometimes these dickheads are members and have guests of their own:
"Excuse me, do you have your card?"
"He's my guest."
"It's a twenty-five dollar guest fee."
"Who can I talk to about that? I pay a hundred-fifty dollars a month and I'm never here. I should be able to get guests in for free."
Right, because the exorbitant membership fee coupled with your own stupidity gives you free rein to do whatever the fuck you want. These guys don't do shit anyway. They just text message between light sets and look around to see if anybody's checking them out. It's all about making an appearance -- the ever-popular coke-and-situps workout.
But as much as I like to crack on them for being dumb and empty, they are infinitely richer than me, so they must be doing something right, right? When I get in these moods, these funks, I often picture myself a pipe-smoking academic judging the world from the comfort and solace of his dimly-lit study. Am I truly any better than them? Or is that just an illusion?
Being poor and intelligent is romantic. Being rich and stupid is fun.
Management recently changed the computer screensavers to display pages from the front desk manual, which is insulting to just about anybody who knows how to breathe through their nose. That's not enough, though. No.
The screensavers trigger every fucking minute. And we can't change that.
Escalation flowcharts and employee do's-and-dont's are slowly being burned into my brain. Did you know gum is evil? Another month and I'll be the rehabilitated version of Alex from A Clockwork Orange.
Then I won't want a raise.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Also, if you get a chance, check out this week's South Park. Relevant and hilarious, as they usually are.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
I have to sneeze...
About two-and-a-half months ago, C tipped me off to the Bose Companion 2's. She'd have DJ Quik or Tupac pumping from the small silver speakers and I was always impressed with how they filled her condo with a bass-enhanced, grown-up sound. No need for a subwoofer or satellites. Just plug the motherfuckers in and eargasms abound.
"I don't know. About a hundred."
"I sweeeeeeeeeeear! Go on Amazon."
She was right. At the time, I had been struggling with a first draft that I couldn't figure out how to finish. Eventually I did and I felt like a G. An unexpected Christmas check from my Aunt Colette had yielded a minor windfall and I decided that, because I hoard my money, I would do the opposite this time and reward myself.
Within an hour I had my first noise complaint.
Nine o'clock on a Saturday night. What I want to know is who can hate on the Ignition Remix on a Saturday night? Monday evening, okay. But not on a motherfucking Saturday. It's the freakin' weekend, baby. We're about to have us some fun.
What's frustrating is that I'm NOT one of those assholes who blasts his music. I can't stand that shit. So I go out of my way to make sure I'm at a reasonable volume, never turning my speakers up past a quarter of the way and rarely going past a fifth. They need to be loud enough for me; not the whole neighborhood.
It's a different story in my car. Yes, I'm one of THOSE assholes.
Over the next couple weeks, the complaints add up. There are no warnings: no courtesy pounds or knocks on the door. I never find out I'm being "loud" until it's too late. What's really fucked is the complaints are received at normal times. Noon on a Sunday, nine on a Saturday, three on a Wednesday. No 2AM, I'm-trying-to-fucking-sleep complaints. No. Just the I-hear-a-noise-and-choose-to-be-a-cunt complaints. Because the building is run by fucking foreigners -- racially indefinable, airport employee-looking IndoAfroWhatevers from some faraway land like Bangladesh -- every complaint is indulged. Every. Fucking. One. They don't stop to consider that maybe the complainer is being nitpicky and unreasonable:
"You hear faint noise at 1:00 pm on Tuesday? Okay, I write down and punish."
To make matters worse, things are run on the honor system, which is funny because there's no honor in tattling. Theoretically, I could target an apartment and call in a whole shitload of noise complaints. Get the tenants kicked out. Do it all over again. Turn it into a sick game, you know? There's nothing in place to stop me. No crybaby dickhead or whiny bitch clause. But why should there be? I mean we're all just goddamn fonts of fucking sensibility, aren't we?
The system is flawed. Fucked. Like a four-year-old girl visiting a long-haired uncle.
I start to get shit from my roommate, a quiet, judging, passive-aggressive type who prefers not to communicate through words, but through notes and annoying little gestures like neatly placing the cable bill on your pillow instead of telling you to pay up. Just the other day I was lying on the futon with one of his blankets. When I got home from work the blanket was gone.
Patrick and I call him Dad.
"You can't keep doing this."
"I'm not doing shit! You hear my music. It's not loud at all."
"You're getting complaints. I never got complaints."
"You listen to acoustic rock."
I unplug my speakers.
But goddamn if they don't sit there and taunt me like jailbait. Eventually, I plug them back in. I keep the volume low. Low low low. I even turn off the bass.
More complaints. More shit from Dad. He tells me I'm being inconsiderate. I tell him that I live here too, that I (over)pay rent too, that I should be able to listen to my shit at a reasonable volume in the middle of the fucking day. I yell at him for siding with the neighbor, with building management. Then I run into my room and slam my curtain.
"Sue is a nice lady!"
No, she's fucking not. Sue (short for Sujsomething) is the building manager, a craven weasel of a woman not unlike my poetry professor from college. All smiles until you turn your back. She has gone out of her way to speak to my roommate regarding our situation, having him relay messages to me, even telling him "I know it's not you". Not once have I been contacted. Like Dad, it's always through notes or third-parties. What bothers, frustrates, angers me is I'm one noise complaint away from eviction and nobody has said shit to me.
And I know this is how the world operates, through falsehoods and bullshit and cowardice and avoiding confrontation, yet it's still so hard for me to accept and swallow. Why the fuck can we not communicate with one another? Why must we perpetuate the cycle of bullshit?
Let's talk, goddammit.
And yes, I know I can always initiate communication, but I've done that before and it's been twisted around to hurt me, blown up in my face. Because no matter how nice and friendly you are, nobody wants to have a serious talk with a big guy. People take it the wrong way. They get intimidated. You're seen as the aggressor -- some scary vigilante trying to sidestep the cold unflinchingness of policy to eke out a special deal for himself. And if somebody's devoted to policy, like most assholes with a shred of power are, they're just going to take offense. And sink you. And fuck you. I'd go to the Polish bitch next door and bite my tongue and suck her dick, but I'm pretty sure she'd say something to management. Or phone in another noise complaint to put the kibosh on me for good.
So that's where I stand.
Dad's fucking me and moving out May 1st. I had an opportunity to get an apartment with Patrick last month, but I didn't because I didn't want to leave Dad in a bind. And now I'm in that bind. I won't miss him. For the first time in a long time, I have a choice: I can either move out or find another roommate. This is where I need your help. These are my options:
I have one strike left. Staying here is a big risk, but then again so is picking up and moving to LA. If I get another roommate I get to interview a whole bunch of motherfuckers and decide who's going to live with me, which will be fun. Since I live in the back half of the living room, I can drop my rent to $600 (from $666) and charge $800 for the room. I can cancel cable and save another $50 a month. Basically, I'll inherit the apartment. What I don't want to do is move somebody in, get a noise complaint, and then move that motherfucker out -- both of our permanent records branded with a big red E. That's not fair and it's not right.
To be honest, the only thing I really like about this building is the fucking location. I don't use the pool, I don't use the hot tub, and laundry is way too expensive. I don't have a lot of shit so moving isn't a problem. I also have a car now, so I can live in a lot more places. But I don't want to move to the Valley. I like being minutes from work. I like being in Hollywood, in the mix with all the other strugglers like me. It keeps me going, I think. If I move, I feel like the stars have to align -- location, price, quality, a sane roommate who isn't too creepy or partyboy-ish. Almost too much to ask, huh?
What do you guys think?
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Ponyboy stops to pour sips of water into her lover’s mouth, both of them high on weed and ecstasy. She takes a drink and a moment to vibe to the Portishead floating out of the generic iPod sounddock, then grabs the base of her rubber cock and guides it back in, not letting go once she’s inside, holding it steady like a lesbian lightsaber. The Ukrainian girl moans and tilts her head back. Ponyboy builds rhythm.
Flicks of the tongue over barbell-pierced nipples.
I have a smile on my face that’s wider than a midget’s head.
I met C about a week after I was dumped. She’s a bigger girl, about my height. Half Filipino, half white. A too-goofy personality that is way cool. We have sex sometimes (she helped me discover that I enjoy having my taint tongued while I jerk off). She’s a fun girl and an ego-stroking friend. I love hanging out with her.
I’m just not that attracted to her.
Our first few fuck sessions were mind-blowingly awesome, like getting a new video game. But new games get old fast and, unlike Goldeneye, the replay value isn’t high on this one. C is the girl who won’t shut up during sex. She talks too much. Overacts. As Dirk Diggler would say, “It’s just not sexy, Jack.”
I think dirty talk should be treated like sexual landmines. A couple well-placed “fuck me’s” or “you’re so deep’s” do the job just fine. Constant moaning, screaming, squealing; questions (“Do you want to do doggie? Do you want to keep doing me like this? What do you want to do?”) – it’s all overkill. Takes you out of the moment. Plant too many mines and the person’s going to avoid the field altogether.
Sex is best when you’re not thinking.
So I get a drunken text message from C the other day suggesting a threesome with her recently heartbroken lesbian friend (the Ukrainian girl). C is convinced she can get her to go along with it.
“But she’s a lesbian.”
“But you have a big dick.”
I get an email later informing me the Ukrainian girl “likes pussy more than I thought” and that “she’s bringing her butch friend”, but “they’ll be fucked up” and I can “still probably fuck her”.
It’s 3:30 by the time I get to C’s (don’t ask). I’m a little tipsy and feel somewhat invincible because I was listening to Lil’ Wayne at a high volume. She meets me downstairs, tired and drugged, makeup smeared, and we take the elevator up to her condo. As we walk, she tells me what’s going on (“They’ve been at it for hours”, “I can’t sleep”, “I was afraid they were going to attack me”). I ask the Howard Stern follow-up questions (“You didn’t participate?”, “Are you turned on?”, “How did it start?”) and then squeeze her left breast.
When I first see Ponyboy, she’s fingerfucking the Ukrainian girl like a Coke machine that stole her money. Sucking on her tits. I’m surprised at how butch she is. I wasn’t expecting someone who could be a 14-year-old boy.
She hops off the couch and shakes my hand with the one she was just using.
“Nice to meet ya,” she says in a lesbian voice.
I smell my hand. No scent. Nice.
The Ukrainian girl gives me a little wave from the couch. She’s thick and husky-voiced and reminds me of the movie The Saint with Val Kilmer. There’s a black skirt hiked up around her waist that hangs just low enough to cover her pussy lips. A kite tattoo flies up the doughy skin on her right side.
Not wanting to delay things, I take my dick out.
“So that’s what one of those looks like,” Ponyboy says objectively, which is humbling because on some weird subconscious level I expected her to reject the pussy-filled life she has made for herself and devote herself to cock.
C has this surprised look on her face like she can’t believe I just whipped it out. I’ve seen this look before: when a girl writes a check her ass can’t cash. Big talk syndrome. Mena Suvari’s character in American Beauty. C makes it a point to talk about how sexually liberal she is, and now, faced with possibly the weirdest sexual encounter of our lives, she clams up.
“Come in the room with me.”
“But the girls are out here.”
“Come fuck me.”
“I can fuck you any time. I never get to see lesbians.”
I playfully slap my dick against her forehead and convince her to give me a half-hearted blowjob while I watch Ponyboy go down on the Ukrainian girl. I can feel C watching me watching them and I can feel her feeling inadequate, like she’s not enough for me, like I’m only over because there are lesbians – which is true, but the point is moot because I fucked the shit out of her the night before. Plus she talked this whole thing up. Advertised the hell out of it. She got me all excited and now she was letting me down. Just like the movie Independence Day.
Ponyboy says this:
“Is it weird when straight people have sex? I ain’t never seen two straight people fuck.”
I tell her that she can watch C and I. We’ll go in the room and fuck on one side of the bed and they can fuck on the other. Ponyboy looks at the Ukrainian girl. Thinks for a second. She’s calling the shots here.
“A’right, but none of that’s going near her,” she says, referring to my dick.
“No no no. Not at all.”
I lose an inch.
Me and C go into her room while Ponyboy stays on the couch and works the Ukrainian girl towards another orgasm. I can’t shut up about how cool all of this is.
“I think you’re freaking them out,” C says.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not some porno. (The Ukrainian girl) is my friend.”
My hard-on, which was already on its way out the door, dies. A wave of disappointment rushes over me. Shit is serious all of a sudden. What’s the point of a (potential) four-way fuckfest if all parties aren’t going to treat it like a party? This isn’t some Maury Povich vignette with sad-sounding piano music. This is motherfucking exhibitionism. Let’s objectify each other, goddammit. Nobody should be treated like a person in a situation like this.
The lesbians enter.
“A’right, move over.”
“I’m actually going to get going,” I say, sounding pissed off and let down at the same time so C will feel like shit. And she does. And then I feel like shit for making her feel like shit.
“Yeah. I’m cool… I’m done. Thanks for letting me watch though.”
I get up and go out to the living room and put my pants and shoes on. Ponyboy comes out with the Ukrainian girl. She asks what’s wrong. I tell her C ruined it for me.
“… and it sucks too because I’ve never watched lesbians before and you guys were going to pop one of my life-cherries.”
I look at the Ukrainian girl. She shrugs.
“Yeah,” Ponyboy says. “I’ve never been watched. I want to find out if I’m an exhibitionist.”
I can’t believe how scientific she is about all of this, like this is research or something. An “if… then” hypothesis:
If a penis-haver watches me make love to another woman then I will be x-amount of times more turned on.
I kick off my shoes.
Ponyboy tells the Ukrainian girl to lie on the couch. She takes a rip from a veiny, curved-dick shaped bong (oh the irony) and saunters over to her generic iPod sounddock.
“What song you want me to play?”
“Uh… I… you choose.”
“Come on. Pick something.”
“Uh… do you have any hard rap?”
In retrospect I should’ve said Nine Inch Nails or Marilyn Manson or something else just as sleazy-sounding. For some reason, I almost said Boyz II Men. Can you imagine watching lesbians fuck to End of the Road?
“I’ve got a good one,” Ponyboy says. She presses play.
Splash Waterfalls by Ludacris.
It’s at this moment that I realize that Ponyboy is cooler and cornier than I ever will be. I admire her showmanship.
She takes a sip of water and struts over to her Ukrainian lover with the confidence of an Asian breakdancer who’s about to one-up the guy that went before him. She flings the Ukrainian girl’s legs apart and goes to town with her mouth, snaking her tongue over the clit with precision and accuracy. I’m a little jealous of her pussy-eating skills. I can’t control my tongue for shit and usually end up treating a girl like an all-you-can eat buffet rather than a last meal. What I lack in control I make up for in enthusiasm. I’m the team retard everyone grows to love.
I move to the right to get a better view. Ponyboy looks over to make sure I’m watching and I wonder if she wants me to masturbate. Is it proper etiquette to jerk off in this situation? If so, do I ask permission, or do I just take it out and start jacking? Would that be rude?
I stick my hand down my pants and try to resuscitate my hard-on. Ponyboy actually makes my dick want to crawl inside of me, so I focus on the Ukrainian girl and the way her face contorts. How wide her legs are spread. How hard her nipples are. I undo my belt and unzip my jeans. Easy access. Slowly but surely, my dick starts to breathe. I feel a pulse. But I can’t get the motherfucker to stand up – mainly because I can’t stop thinking about what an awesome blog entry all of this is going to be.
Ponyboy looks over again and I immediately hide my dick, embarrassed because I’m not hard and because I’ve never jerked off to people in person.
“It’s floppy now,” Ponyboy observes.
“Don’t squirt on us.”
Why? What’s wrong with my semen? The problem is I’m thinking too much. Thoughts and boners are inversely proportionate. Unless they’re dirty thoughts. But this moment is so surreal to me that it’s impossible not to think. I mean fuck, I’m no Jedi. I can’t just use the force. On a side note, I think male pornstars are awesome at cock control because they’re idiots. When you eliminate intelligence from the kingdom of you, the dick is free to reign supreme.
The Ukrainian girl complains about the music, probably because it makes her feel slutty, and Ponyboy gets up to turn on the more lesbian-friendly Portishead. She clips a strap-on over her jeans and says this, recalling my hard-on from earlier:
“Think I got you beat.”
I grunt a laugh. A. This bitch doesn’t have me beat. We’re about the same size. B. This is completely fucking unfair because I can’t prove it right now.
But I stop thinking about that shit when Ponyboy slides a condom onto her pink dick. What. The fuck. For. Is this some type of weird lesbian method-fucking, where they simulate the semi-unpleasurable sex that hetero strangers have in the name of safety? Or is Ponyboy too lazy to clean her strap-on after each fuck session? Or do a woman’s juices corrode dildo rubber? Maybe Ponyboy’s just trying to get the most mileage out of her purchase. The most bang for her buck.
“How do you want me to fuck her?”
“How should I fuck her?”
“Uh… I don’t know.”
“Come on. Be a male chauvinist pig and tell me what to do to her.”
I don’t even want to get into the psychological and sociological implications of this, because I could probably write a fucking paper. So let’s just skip to what I said:
“Uh… bend her over the couch?”
The Ukrainian girl stays on the couch and gets on all fours. I actually meant for Ponyboy to have her stand up and bend her over the side of the couch, but I don’t want to get all technical. I figure it’s doggie, it’s penetration. It’ll suffice.
Ponyboy mounts her. She grabs the base of the strap-on and guides it into the Ukrainian girl’s pussy like a valet parker. A sharp breath. And then soft moans. Ponyboy is a tender lover, often pausing to ask if anything hurts or to eat pussy. I’m amazed at her selflessness. I’m not selfish when I have sex, but I have sex for selfish reasons. I feel like my reputation’s at stake, like I have to build it up. Sex isn’t about me; it’s about my ego. It’s about what the girl will tell her friends. As long as she has nice things to say, I’m happy. I can pack it up and go home and jerk off.
But Ponyboy doesn’t seem to care about any of that, and I wonder if this is what the whole lesbian thing is about: the ability to care about your sexual partner more than you care about yourself. Maybe lesbians aren’t turned off by dick; maybe they’re just turned off by all the macho bullshit that goes with it.
My dick is showing signs of life now and I’m feeling a bit bold. I take it out and try to get lost in the moment. But every time I start to make progress, build rhythm, Ponyboy stops to reposition herself and/or care for her lover. It’s like playing Madden with a friend who keeps stopping to watch the instant replays.
Ponyboy gets up and grabs a small bondage whip. I ask her what the technical term for it is and she says “flog”, although later, nothing comes up when I google-image “flog” (but it does when I query “small bondage whip”). She wraps the whip around the Ukrainian girls throat and tugs, choking her and fucking her from behind. The intensity picks up and no longer am I watching a live version of Boys Don’t Cry.
I’m watching fucking.
My thoughts disappear and I am beating my meat, trying to blow my load before the next intermission. My fist bangs against my loose jean flap and my button jingles like a jinglebell. Images of Santa pop into my head and I pull my jeans down further to make the noise stop.
I’m a grown-boy and I can feel the heat building, the tingle tingling. I focus as hard as I can:
Shut eyes. Lips. Tits. Nipples. Thighs. Pussy. Moans. Fucking. Santa (get the fuck out!) Fucking. Fucking. Thighs. Breathing. Fucking. Tits. Lips. Santa. Shut eyes. Pussy. Nipples. Thighs. Thighs. Fuc—
And I shoot. Sticky streams onto the hardwood floor. I make it a point to grunt and be loud so Ponyboy and the Ukrainian girl will look over and see what I’m packing because I’m a typical insecure male who wants everyone to worship my cock. They look over. But they don’t acknowledge shit. They don’t bow to my dick. And it sucks.
Shame washes over me. The why-did-I-do-that shame that usually accompanies phone sex or murder. Suddenly I realize what a pervert and asshole I am. How rude and cold I’ve been to C, who is still in the bedroom, awake and sad.
Mr. Hyde becomes Dr. Jekyll again.
I button my jeans and put my shoes on.
“Where you going?” Ponyboy asks.
I want to explain to her how men can envision a sexless future post-nut, how we can think clear and wax honest and get shit done. But it’ll just be something she’ll nod at. Something she’ll never understand.
“Stay and watch us for ten more minutes.”
And so, to be polite, I do.
C’s cat walks into the room. Meows.
It’s 4:57 in the morning.