Sunday, March 23, 2008
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Twoandahalfsome
It’s 4:44 in the morning and I’m watching lesbians fuck on a couch. From the back, the butch looks like Ponyboy. Red Tab Levis and a sleeveless black t-shirt thrusting a large pink strap-on into a sexy Ukrainian girl with big thighs. The sticky-sweet smacking of wet vagina being penetrated, like kids chewing with their mouths open.
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.
Sexy stares.
Sloppy kisses.
Flicks of the tongue over barbell-pierced nipples.
I have a smile on my face that’s wider than a midget’s head.
It’s 4:45.
Backstory:
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.”
“You’re right.”
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”.
Sweet.
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.
“You too.”
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.
“You sure?”
“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.”
“So stay.”
I look at the Ukrainian girl. She shrugs.
“Really?”
“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?
Fuck it.
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.
“It happens.”
“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?”
“What?”
“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?”
“Nice.”
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 came.”
“So?”
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.
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.
Sexy stares.
Sloppy kisses.
Flicks of the tongue over barbell-pierced nipples.
I have a smile on my face that’s wider than a midget’s head.
It’s 4:45.
Backstory:
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.”
“You’re right.”
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”.
Sweet.
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.
“You too.”
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.
“You sure?”
“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.”
“So stay.”
I look at the Ukrainian girl. She shrugs.
“Really?”
“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?
Fuck it.
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.
“It happens.”
“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?”
“What?”
“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?”
“Nice.”
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 came.”
“So?”
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.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
I am still...
... Jon Favreau in Swingers. I am a fucking spineless insecure pussyboy who is shit with the ladies. I cannot get over my ex-girlfriend because I am weak and fragile and dumber than a box of Reeboks.
Two weeks.
That's how long I lasted before I picked up the phone and reopened the scab. I mean what's wrong with a phone call. We're friends right? Given our history and the emotions and moments we've shared, we'd have to be... right?
It's opposite day.
In the aftermath of a pretty fucking good relationship, you find that everything you had going for you works against your friendship. All those kisses and cuddles and inside jokes become demons you can't escape. You try not to call her by her pet name and she tries not to talk in her little girl voice. You want to be friends, you pretend to be, but it's just not something you're capable of.
We're like wiggers.
So yeah. She calls today and we talk:
"I'm thinking of coming to visit... my mom."
"I don't want to see you."
She didn't say it like that, but that's what it is at its core. She says she's afraid of hurting me again, which is potent potent bullshit. I don't understand girls. They break your heart and then they ignore you because hey, it'll be good for you. I cannot even begin to articulate how off and how fucking wrong this is. If you really don't want to hurt me, grovel. Grovel and have hot, unprotected ex-sex with me.
You guys tired of hearing about his yet? My friends sure as hell are:
Since the break-up, I've tried experimenting with different kinds of facial hair to see if a certain look will get me laid more than my standard once-a-week shave. I'm like tiny Mario in the underground cave, hoping that if I hit the question mark box with a goatee on it, a vine will come out and carry me into the sky where I will collect pussies and blowjobs instead of coins.
Other notes:
-- I am confident I will sell my first script, or make major steps towards doing so, this year
-- I am slowly losing money
-- Script competition season is gearing up and I will bleed more dollars
-- I don't expect to win or place in these competitions because I fear the readers are too dumb and/or conservative to appreciate my genius
-- I have to try regardless
-- I'm thinking of going on food stamps
-- I am putting together a Misogyny Mix to listen to in my car. Any song suggestions?
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Academy Gets It Right
No Country For Old Men is easily the best movie I've seen in years. It is so motherfucking good that I use it to judge people. If you don't like this movie then we probably won't get along. In short, ill-speakers of this film are most likely fucking idiots.
"I hated the ending. I didn't get it."
Suck a dick and grow a brain. The Coen Brothers chose theme over convention and turned an edge-of-your-seat thriller into something bigger. Deeper. Resonant. They used their Hollywood clout for good and with this win they almost make the Oscars relevant again.
I'm off to the gettin' place.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
LA Victory
Note to any LA douchebags who read this:
Yes, I'm aware that Bar Marmont is probably considered uncool and easy to get into by you avant-garde party fixtures, but to an out-of-towner like me who doesn't own any Ed Hardy shit, it's not so easy. So don't hate. Let me small fish it.
I never get into Bar Marmont. Of the four times I've tried, I've hit once -- but that was on a Sunday at 9 after our company holiday party and I was with about twenty of my attractive coworkers. The other times, I've been held back by my lack of money, vagina, and status (or the perception thereof) -- always velvet-roped by a scarf-wearing, European-looking black man who says they're at capacity while he takes bribes and lets in overmakeupped girls in slutty black dresses. Last time I tried, the girl I was with (Lauren from the shop) threw a temper tantrum and told me to fuck off so she could get in.
She did. I went to McDonalds.
Last night was different, though. Patrick and I were originally supposed to go to this trendy Hollywood club called Mood for an Armenian birthday function with Aaron and his girlfriend Nooneh, but a zero hour text message put the kibosh on that:
"dont come tried to charge 30 cover"
Thirty dollars. Valet not included. Pussy not guaranteed. There better be a magic portal for that price. One with a majestical, Legend of Zelda fairy pond sound that shoots out Inspector Gadget arms to blow you, finger you, and spray you with expensive cologne as you pass through to enter the club.
By the time we find out we won't be grinding up against big round asses that belong to girls whose last names end in -an, I already have two drinks in me and am working on my third. Yes, the alcohol flowed early, my friends. Like a fourth-grader on her period. Throw some potcorn in the mix and I'm the coolest motherfucker on Earth.
There's a knock at the door. Marcus, the security guard.
"No, dude! We did NOT get another fucking noise complaint."
"Man, I been standing outside your door for a minute and I can't hear shit. I don't know who's trippin' on y'all."
We invite Marcus in for a drink. He's a young, good-looking black guy from South Central. And he's alive. He calls down to the foreigner at the desk and tells him our music isn't even on and everything is cool. I pour him some vodka and throw on some west coast rap and idle conversation rules for the next half hour.
Fun fact about me and black people:
I like to think I'm cool with more black people than the Beverly Center. The truth is I have to work very hard to feel this way. Whenever possible, I steer conversations towards rap or rap-related subjects. If a black person happens to be talking about math, I'll mention the number 24 and start talking about rims. I'll switch up my word choice and use a lot of gerunds. Instead of saying, "She was hot" I'll say something like, "That bitch was straight banging." I can't help it. I need to be validated by the urban element. This behavior probably isn't helping.
Patrick calls up Christian, a trainer from the gym who's anything but. He's at the Libertine on Sunset, the scene of an incredibly fun Asian night a few weeks back. I ended up pole dancing with some J-Pop-looking girl named Noriko, except I kept calling her Norelco. I think I called her Nintendo once, too. She gave me a kiss a on the lips and giggled like a Pokemon.
Off to the Libertine we go.
Patrick parks a mile away because we don't have to pay, and we trek up Crescent Heights. The whole thing takes about thirty seconds in my head because I am sufficiently buzzed and spend the whole walk drunk-dialing and shouting "motherfucker" at anything that moves. We get to the Libertine and, by some miracle, I remember the dreadlocked doorman's name (Conrad). I mention our mutual friend (Berman) and we get in (free).
Unfortunately tonight is not Asian night and it's dead inside.
Christian is posted up at the bar finishing a beer. We stand around and try to look cool while we figure out where the fuck we're going to go. I suggest the Body Shop and then immediately regret it because I don't want to pay a ten dollar cover charge for tits I will never have in my mouth.
So I suggest Bar Marmont, which is right across the street.
Christian and Patrick kind of look at each other. They're thinking exactly what I'm thinking: we'll never get in. Eleven-something on a Saturday and people already crowded outside, some of them female. We're three dicks, six balls, and zero clout. Not a fucking chance.
We try anyway.
The Bar Marmont is a wooden-doored tavern tucked in a wall of ivy at the beginning of the Sunset Strip. Steps lead inside so you feel superior and chosen when the doorman finally unclips the velvet rope for you. Tonight, my stubble-having nemesis hangs back smoking a cigarette while a short white model/actor plays point. He has a perfect square for a jaw and looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and the guy who played Chuck on The Wonder Years. He plucks souls for entrance like God's assistant.
Travis, one of the membership guys from my gym, has mentioned before that he has a Bar Marmont hook-up -- a white guy at the door. Could this be him? And if it is, what's the proper way to go about name-dropping? Do I say "I'm friends with Travis" or "I know Travis" or "Do you know Travis?" I don't want to fuck this up. I--
"Is that the dude from Can't Hardly Wait?"
No. But Vinnie Jones comes barreling out with a lady friend that will rim him if he blinks twice and I realize that if we get in tonight, it's a victory. This is the same place I couldn't get into with my girlfriend in July, barely over a month in town. How fucking symbolic and cool and uplifting and awesome would it be if I got in tonight, without the bitch?
I approach the doorman:
"Is Travis in there?"
He looks me over. Patrick. Christian.
"I got you guys. Hold on a sec."
The next eight minutes are suspense. People coming, people going. At one point, when it looks like we're going to get in, a posse of bimbos who reek of cigarettes and perfume slut on up. So we wait some more. A brown-haired girl steps outside and calls down the steps to her blonde friend. She reaches to her, like an angel beckoning from the other side:
"It's everything you've ever dreamed. Overpriced drinks, ugly guys with money, friends of friends of friends."
A minute later, the blonde friend gets in. Two cholos with a visible wad of cash strut up. More girls come. Things are looking bad...
"I've really gotta get these guys in. They've been waiting forever."
And then the doorman unclips the rope for us and it's a sweet fucking moment in my LA life. I'm swept up the steps by a wave of false accomplishment. I don't look back at the people who won't get in. Not because I feel superior, but because my head feels like a Windows 3.1 screensaver and I don't want to swivel it around too much.
I want to tip the doorman, but all I have is a twenty and a couple of ones and I don't want to insult him or ask for change. I have no idea what the standard doorman tip is anyway. Probably way more than I can afford. Christian tells me "never pay at the door". I tell him I could've created a relationship. It's a Pavlovian thing, like training a dog -- treats and praise will get you everywhere:
"Thanks, man. Really appreciate it." Handshake him money.
You do that a few times, learn his name, ask a couple bullshit questions about his life, and then eventually take away the money. I'm speculating of course, but I can't imagine being far off.
It's not that crowded inside. Definitely not at capacity like the lie I've been told so many times. I see Jason Segel from Knocked Up and How I Met Your Mother. He is one 9/11-tall motherfucker. I want to congratulate him on knowing Judd Apatow and having a career because of it (plus he's talented), but he's talking to a short girl and I don't want to cockblock a burgeoning celebrity with my off-kilter, drunken congratulatory-ness:
"Dude, you... hold on..." Throw up on his bitch.
At the bar, Christian asks me what I'm drinking. I know I should get a beer -- switch from missiles to guns -- but when you're drunk you never envision reaching the point where you're too drunk. It may have happened before, but that was before. This time, more vodka will only make you happier and improve your altered state.
"Vodka Cranberry."
It's so good I can't taste the alcohol. We take a seat in a couple of high chairs and revel and bask in our glory. Our victory. LA: a million, Us: one. But that one feels like a million and that's all that matters. What sucks is I'm too drunk to fully appreciate the moment. I can't make this count because I can barely see straight. I have maybe enough sober in me to lie to one girl about who I am and what I do. And even if those lies made her want to blow me, it probably wouldn't matter because I doubt my dick would work -- like an old lady with a broken hip or Brody Jenner.
Hot Aryan girls walk by and Patrick, a Swede, tells me to ask them if they're Norweigan:
"Are you Norweigous?"
"Yes."
"Cooooooooool..."
They continue on and I'm left wondering what the point of that was.
In my chair, I invent a dance called the typewriter; I stutter my body from left to right and then slide back to the left and do it all over again. Christian tells me people are going to think I'm a retard. I stop. For about five minutes.
I figure out that if I sit a certain way it feels like my feet are having an orgasm.
And then that moment comes, the one that you thought wouldn't. The moment when it all stops being fun. This is the Tommy Devito in Goodfellas moment, where you're Joe Pesci and you think you're getting motherfucking made when you're really getting motherfucking whacked. It's all over. You're finished like a bowl of rice in Darfur.
"... no more..."
I see the look on Patrick's face. Because he's such a good friend, he knows his night is about to end too. He and Christian send me outside to stumble around against the ivy while they finish their drinks. When I walk it feels like I'm walking in a dream. I'm too fucked up to even smoke a cigarette.
I bow my head in defeat. Most victories are bittersweet anyway.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
V Day and some rambling
Valentine's Day exists to remind us how much happy couples suck. Hand-holding, kissy-facing, baby-talking, movie-watching, toothbrush-sharing, fart-in-fronting, inside joke-having, no rubber-wearing, "together forever" motherfuckers who are comfortable with the asshole they lucked into finding.
(Comfort + Having shit in common + a shred of attraction) x Time = Love
I'm sure my ex-girlfriend will spend at least some of her Valentine's Day with Muggsy Bogues' dick in her mouth. I wonder if she gives him the same "my jaw hurts" excuse she gave me. 'Twas bullshit. She just sucked dick at sucking dick. Mine at least. Maybe she would've done a better job if she pretended it was somebody else's.
I'm sorry, but I have this rage/sadness hybrid inside of me that bubbles like the slime in Ghostbusters 2. I don't know why it won't go away. It's like initials carved into a tree. Every time I start to forget I've been replaced and move on, the scab reopens and I have to start all over again. Nights are tough when you know she's not alone. Tonight won't be any easier. Someone suggested I go to one of those oh-so-fucking-clever Valentine's Day "Singles Awareness" functions where mediocre-looking drunk chicks with daddy issues and weight problems hoot and holler and shout edgy shit like, "Love sucks!" while they try to muster the courage to dance on the bar. I'd probably spontaneously combust from attending such a trite little get-together. Then again, this is a trite, anti-Valentine's Day post and I'm still here.
I really hate that fucking show Friends. That has nothing to do with this, by the way.
I wrote something clever the other day:
thinking, feeling
triste at a bar in los feliz
took my insight outside
to hold on to my release
I fear I may work at the gym forever. And yes, I know how crazy I sound, but I'm not writing with my brain right now. I'm writing with that feeling in my stomach.
Time for bed.
(Comfort + Having shit in common + a shred of attraction) x Time = Love
I'm sure my ex-girlfriend will spend at least some of her Valentine's Day with Muggsy Bogues' dick in her mouth. I wonder if she gives him the same "my jaw hurts" excuse she gave me. 'Twas bullshit. She just sucked dick at sucking dick. Mine at least. Maybe she would've done a better job if she pretended it was somebody else's.
I'm sorry, but I have this rage/sadness hybrid inside of me that bubbles like the slime in Ghostbusters 2. I don't know why it won't go away. It's like initials carved into a tree. Every time I start to forget I've been replaced and move on, the scab reopens and I have to start all over again. Nights are tough when you know she's not alone. Tonight won't be any easier. Someone suggested I go to one of those oh-so-fucking-clever Valentine's Day "Singles Awareness" functions where mediocre-looking drunk chicks with daddy issues and weight problems hoot and holler and shout edgy shit like, "Love sucks!" while they try to muster the courage to dance on the bar. I'd probably spontaneously combust from attending such a trite little get-together. Then again, this is a trite, anti-Valentine's Day post and I'm still here.
I really hate that fucking show Friends. That has nothing to do with this, by the way.
I wrote something clever the other day:
thinking, feeling
triste at a bar in los feliz
took my insight outside
to hold on to my release
I fear I may work at the gym forever. And yes, I know how crazy I sound, but I'm not writing with my brain right now. I'm writing with that feeling in my stomach.
Time for bed.
Monday, February 11, 2008
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