I woke up and I was taking her from behind like a savage. She was black, dark black. Tattoos. I popped into consciousness out of blackness and my dick was pushing into her tight pussy and she was moaning. Eat your heart out, Quantum Leap.
She had flaked on our date. I showed up at the bar on time. Ten minutes later got the text that she forgot. Before that another girl “had her car towed” 20 minutes before our date. Before that a Manic Pixie Dream Girl emailed me 15 minutes before our date: her friends were throwing her a surprise party. But she forgot to put the “o” in “.com” so I showed up and sat there forever like a jerkoff. Manic Pixie Dream Cunt.
She forgot. She was at a happy hour in Hollywood. It was implied that I might join her. But the sun had been down for a few hours so my BAC was at felony level. I needed to draw her back. I needed a miracle. I needed cocaine. My dealer had been deported to Honduras. There to be ventilated by death squads no doubt. Sorry Manny.
On a scale of 1 to 10, I texted, how good is your coke dealer.
11, she said.
Thirty minutes later I was walking two miles down Normandie from the 4 bus with my rent money in my pocket. She was cute. We got high. Stocked up at the liquor store. We coke talked about the state of race relations in America. Listened to Band of Horses youtube videos. Her laundry hamper was in the living room. Every time she went to take a piss I dug for her dirty panties. Sniffed them like they were an oxygen mask and I was trapped in the rubble of the World Trade Center. We’re not going to have sex, she said, as we smoked out the bathroom window. Fine. But I kept pawing at her. Pulling up her shirt and pulling down her pajama pants to look at her ass. Magnificent.
She had pills too. Percocets. The pills and wine won their battle with the coke when I was smearing tangerine scented massage oil in her ass crack. I woke up and I was fucking her. She got on top of me and she could move. The state of race relations in America was improving. Next date we’ll have dinner.
Write Her a Lovely Message…
I accidentally saved you to my favorites. I say accidentally, because I didn’t know that little thing down there did that.
I hope you don’t take that as an insult. If you did, get over yourself. I don’t despise you near enough, at this point, for my favoriting you to not be ironic.
Your profile inspired me to write that. Have a nice day
Only a few people despise me nearly as much as I deserve.
You want to get a drink some night?
Possibly… We should maybe chat a bit and know each others names first, though
I’m Jess btw
Give me a topic and I’ll write something about it.
The topic is – “you”
Go!
Here’s the thing with me. I want to find a nice girl. But I also want to get you hammered in my filthy silverfish infested jack shack and rawdog you in the second hour of our first date. I’ll pull out. But maybe the one wild drop squirts in you and gets you pregnant and thinking about this is getting me hard on the train. This is not a proposition. I am not saying “hey let’s fuck.” You can’t do that. You have to pretend your conversation is about absolutely anything else. Your job, your TV, whatever. But what I am thinking is: hey let’s fuck. Then I can find out if you’re a nice girl. After. But until you fuck her you have no idea. All you’re thinking is will I fuck her can I fuck her God if I give her one more glass of wine she’ll fuck me. I hope I’m not blowing it I can’t afford this wine but I just need that ass so bad. One date, three, a year of friendship, whatever. Until you fuck you can’t turn that off.
And then you fuck. And it occurs to you that she’s boring. She laughs at your shit but never says shit that makes you laugh. She’s “feisty” and adversarial and you mistook that for a sense of humor when your ball sac was burning white hot through your bluejeans. But now she’s just a pain in the ass. You are probably one of these girls. All but maybe five of them have been. Nothing against you though. My definition of boring is most people’s definition of a happy, successful life. I do not have a happy, successful life. I want you to be a sad broke drunk like me but secretly think you’re some genius with a biting wit so having no money is OK. Compulsively tearing up meaningless pussy (or cock, in your case) on OKCupid is OK. Debasing people is OK, dehumanizing people is OK. Debasing and dehumanizing yourself. Because you’re a secret genius. Better than everyone else. And maybe the world will never know but you know and people can see it in your eyes. I want you to be like this. Then it will be us against the world .
But you’re not. I know already that you offer me nothing. But you are pretty. I want to have sex with you. I also know that you are blonde haired blue eyed slender traditional beauty with a college education so fucking you will be an extraordinary hassle. White girls are hard. It’s easier when you’re exotic to somebody. To you I’m just every douche on your high school lacrosse team.
And what a pain in the ass you are already. Your messages are nothing but “dance monkey dance.” Your profile is just one bit of banal self-aggrandizement after another. Like most women. If it weren’t for the genetic accident of your face looking like a small child I would have muttered go fuck yourself as I clicked OKC’s convenient trash can icon. But no one does that to you. They do it to the fat girls but never to you.
They do it to the fat girls but the fat girls still write one bit of banal self-aggrandizement after another. I love my job I love my school I am an artist I am “brainy” I am living my dreams. I am a yogini! I will whoop your ass at scrabble. If one of you had hemorrhoids and wrote an essay about groaning in agony each morning squeezing out hot bloody shit nuggets I’d marry her. If one of you said I dropped out of school and I work a shit job and I have to drink a pint of rotgut at the exact moment the sun goes down to keep my hands from shaking… where are you, lover. We drink tonight under the same moon. We could have top shelf liquor if you’d split the rent. Where are you.
It’s not you. Your shit is too together and no one ever tells you you suck. I’m not saying you suck either. You could be great but I’m never gonna know. You can’t know someone until you fuck them. And I think you’d take more than one date to fuck. Who has that kind of time.
You Should Message Me If, Part 3
I want someone to reenact Frazetta paintings with, basically. I in my burnished brass codpiece, chiseled deltoids rippling as I swing a double-bladed fire axe at a demon spider with sixteen cat eyes. You, astride the rampant beast in chains, nude but for a tattered bikini and a seal fur cloak that conveniently blows aside from your breasts and crotch in hot winds stirred by a distant alien volcano. Your buttocks could be credibly described as “meaty orbs.” My eyes speak of hellfire and lust as I land the killing blow. The unholy death shriek of the beast echos against the jagged black crags in the middle distance. Three moons look on. With another heave of the blade I split your chains. You are free, but your heart is my slave. I look around, furtively. I need a rag to clean off the stinging spider ichor. There is nothing. We are wearing virtually no fabric. I shrug, and we bone anyway.
How about it.
What Do You Do, Part 4
You know those Staples commercials where they show corporate board meetings. Where it’s clear that the people who made the commercial never had a job. That’s what my office looks like. Dark veneered wood. Gray file cabinets. A conference room where dumb platitudes are projected in Microsoft Powerpoint. I am wearing a bad suit. Other men in bad suits walk behind me chattering. They say numbers and facts about money into phones. They pause to listen to other numbers and facts about money. I look at a monitor. On it is a white spreadsheet with information about money. I look for the cell that tells me about someone’s money. Find it. I pick up a phone with many lights and buttons. Push numbers. Ask a secretary for the person with money. If he– and it’s always he– if he picks up I talk to him about his money. I do this for most of the day, most days, so my boss who is rich can be more rich. His office has golf trophies and two big windows. My office only has one window. But it overlooks a golf course. This is desirable. I have a view of a water hazard. It pleases me when the hazard disrupts a golf game. They look like ants from my window but I can read their frustration. Life is only good when someone has it worse.