Forrest Gump 2. Seriously. Same beats, same scenes, same stock characters. That being said, it was enjoyable, tear-jerking Oscar bait. I got a little emotional. I think my mom would like this movie a lot.
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.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
My date with a nympho.
I never thought I could be turned off by a girl who offered herself to me. I think every guy fantasizes about it: some pretty little thing that will do whatever he tells her to. Hot, right?
It's not.
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."
"Huh?"
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.
"Wow."
"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."
"Sorry."
"What'd you do, rub one out?"
"How did you know?"
"What? You mean you actually..."
She nods.
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.
"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."
"It's raining."
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.
It's not.
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."
"Huh?"
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.
"Wow."
"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."
"Sorry."
"What'd you do, rub one out?"
"How did you know?"
"What? You mean you actually..."
She nods.
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.
"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."
"It's raining."
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
Faded Freestyle
Enter you like a door with no lock
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
Aye carumba
like a Bart
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
Aye carumba
like a Bart
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Overmakeupped Girl (Poem from a Bar)
Light illuminates the truth
of your face.
Let's go back inside
so I can pretend
I didn't see those bumps.
of your face.
Let's go back inside
so I can pretend
I didn't see those bumps.
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