Deep breath. Jerk off. Everything will be fine.
Nature’s Miracles
At the beach. A woman with big titties walks into the cold water. Other things are happening too– the thunder of the rolling waves. A flock of shorebirds at the waterline. Ibises I think. Skittering at the edge of the sand, digging for clams. Scattering back. They keep a tight formation. Ancient instincts going back to the dinosaurs. Huge brown pelicans glide overhead like pterodactyls; their brightly colored beaks. The majesty of nature and all that other jerkoff shit. She has big titties. Big titties.
I need to have sex soon or I will die. Specifically, I need to have unprotected sex with a woman between fifteen and twenty seven years of age. A new one. No one I have fucked before. The phone is an elephant’s graveyard of girl numbers. Many of them are cute. Some are even funny. But, you fuck a chick three times, she’s expired. I could write more thoughts on the matter but this woman has big titties. Big titties.
How do you talk to her. She has a navel piercing. How do you talk to a person with a navel piercing. I have rediscovered myself in sobriety. It’s been sixty days now. Shit you pushed down when you were drunk grows back fast. The way Chernobyl is forest again. Memories come back. Knowledge. Emotions. I am a healthy and functioning human being. Honest in all affairs. Guided by a loving God to be of service to others. But Jesus, who gives a fuck– the one thing I can’t do is get pussy. Without pussy, why are you alive.
She has big titties, and she’s getting farther into the water, giggling as the cold waves lap up and up; one makes it to her waist and recedes and she shrieks and her bikini bottoms are damp and her cunt starts to suck them up into its fat little crack and I need to throw her down in the water and get on top of her, throw my forearm in her throat, pull the wet nylon out of that fat cunt crack and yank it to the side and just pump my evil seed into her furiously before the lifeguard can run over and pull me off. Women, you understand nothing. Have a kid and maybe you’ll know. Watch your baby get run over by a dump truck. The way you want to throw yourself under the wheels to save it is about the way I want to forcibly rabbit fuck this sorority girl on vacation. All men, always, are just walking around with this. You can’t jerk it out of you. It’s just raging constantly, bubbling agony in your guts now and forever. You need pussy like breathing. And the world just waterboards you.
Women. The fact that you are not brutally raped– not just every day, but several fucking times per day by gangs of engorged male baboons– the fact that your mailman just hands you the Crate and Barrel catalog and smiles instead of strangling you with his government issue fanny pack and throat fucking you, relishing your tears, spraying his triumphant mailman nut on the geraniums… we are doing you a huge fucking favor at all times. We are watching our baby get run over by a dump truck, and just hearing him scream and watching him die. Holding back every billion year old white hot urge so you can feel comfortable walking around. I’m not asking you to like it. But take some pity on us, you merciless shrews.
I asked my sponsor: how do you get women when you’re sober. I’m a nebbish now. I rediscovered myself. Who I really am is a cringing unmanned dork with a hunched spine and raisin nuts. Girls used to smile at me on the street. Now I’m a slug that came out in the rain. I mean, fine– I hate women anyway. Smug peabrained cunts, talking about nothing.
But that baboon urge shrieks at you like a car alarm going off– get laid get laid get laid. So how do you do it. Go do ten approaches, he told me. Neil Strauss game tips circa 2004. Motherfucker, do you know who I am? I fucked attack pussy on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
Tears in the rain. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Heaven is deaf and hell screams and screams.
Instrument of Thy Will
You know that feeling. Where you drank every day for 20 years. By the end you were blacking out a couple times a week, alone. You were yelling at cops, getting in fights with women– Lesbians duke it out; the straight chicks just bite you. That feeling where you had a solid 20 years of that going on. You accomplished nothing in your career. Your net worth is negative ten thousand dollars, despite your fancy schools. Your car is 35 years old. It cost $1200 on craigslist. The master brake cylinder’s about to go; the thing barely stops. Breather hose is disconnected and just spits blue smoke. The engine doesn’t turn off when you kill the ignition. You have to rev it up, floor it for about ten seconds to push all the diesel out of the fuel line. You have to do this getting home at 10:30 PM in your parking lot that is just under the window of the building next door, where a nice woman has a new baby. Floor your loud as fuck poison fume spewing 1970’s diesel engine late under her window, gas creeps up into the vent and fries the little fucker’s brain. He’ll look at his schoolwork ten years from now and the letters won’t form words, they’ll just dance. No money no job no wife no kids no art no nothing. You have done nothing with your life. Maybe you kept the cat alive but come on, a monkey could raise a cat. Even the cat would be better off without you.
Drank every day for 20 years, every 6 weeks or so you’d get cocaine, jabber meaninglessly at douchebag guys and girls who would never fuck you or if they would you couldn’t get a boner. Spend six hours when they go home sucking up your last bumps while making artificial pussies and jerking it to horse porn. Needless to say you were a pig with women. They hated you when it mattered and now you hate them and you just fuck your way through them like a machine. Internet dating was invented right when something in you cracked. Like a weirdo getting his first gun. From there it was just tear em up. You can’t talk to women for shit in real life but the internet, fuck man. They loved you, a lot of them. Why. Probably because you’re tall. No, no, see– one of the things you have to get over is hating yourself. Hating women, hating other people, hating yourself. You are worthy of love. God made you and God only makes things perfect. Well OK. You were worthy of love and got it. You didn’t return it and you only made their lives worse for knowing you. You took them on a date and got them drunk like a machine and then fucked them and never spoke to them again.
Pussy was just another kind of booze. You needed it to not feel ugly. To hell with the pain in the ass thing it’s attached to. You ought to go to the AA for sexaholics, too, you thought. Your home AA venue also serves as a Sex and Love Addicts room. Their vinyl 12 step poster is like the AA one, except it’s diagnostic. 1) We admitted that we used intimacy for (blah blah blah, some bad reason). A list of symptoms, kind of like “you might be a redneck if.” And if you compulsively use OKCupid for unprotected sex with strangers, no intention of seeing them again despite your “looking for” listing saying only “long term dating…” you might just happen to be a redneck.
You wanted to change. You stopped drinking. Which meant you stopped fucking. God became part of your life. Fuck off, He’s helpful. And you went three months and finally you thought: it’s time to date again. How do I do that without hurting someone, you asked.
Go have fun on your date, He said.
You went. She was cool. You were open and human with her. And she with you. And yes, you fucked her. Yes, you made her stand over the cat bowl on the porch on the off chance that your 70 year old neighbor would look out his window. He’s a sweet man and deserves something to look at. But it wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t bad. You were open and honest and vulnerable and it felt good, it felt good… this part of you was God-given too. It didn’t have to be hurtful. Mechanical.