Saturday, December 18, 2010

More stage fright

When I was a kid in the 80’s, we used to go to ballgames at Fenway Park. And when you had to piss, it was— there were no urinals. There was one toilet and it always looked like a Dinty Moore™ beef stew grenade had exploded in it. No— you had to piss in a long communal cast-iron trough shaped like a bath tub with rusty, tetanus-y looking pipes feeding a trickle of water into it. I was like 8, and you had to stand around this thing with no less than a dozen middle aged men, all drunk, with their schlongs all out right near 8 year old eye level. And something about Boston— these were old world schlongs. The ungroomed old country schlongs of rough and brutal men. Somehow no man born of pure immigrant stock ever has anything less than a giant winking sea worm, descending back into a tangle of salt and pepper pubes that have never once been trimmed. Men of this time and place never fucked with their pubes once, in their entire lifetime. Irish guys with flame orange thickets. Swarthy, suspicious men, with Bin Laden dickbeards and brown snakey uncut sausage three shades darker than the rest of them.

I don’t know if you’ve seen a lot of underage wang, but the penis of an 8 year old white child is like a doll’s pinky finger, and beholding these veiny, hideous anacondas was terrifying. I couldn’t pee.

Anyway, cut to five minutes ago and a dude is fixing his blackberry in our multi-office bathroom. Why the fuck is he doing this there? And this bathroom, designed by horrible sadists, is such that anyone who is not in the stall taking a shit is no more than five feet away from whoever’s at the urinal with no structural blockage of any kind between them. I walk in, curiously notice him, think- “this guy doing something weird intimately close to me is going to give me stage fright.” And of course, once you think the words “stage fright,” you have stage fright. Once you think “I hope I can get a boner,” you can’t get a boner. Your dick is just too evil, and has too great a sense of irony. But at this point I’m committed to walking over to the urinal and trying to take a piss. I zip down and hold my dick for several seconds while this guy over my shoulder casually studies his blackberry. Nothing. I start to push. As is often the case in this situation, I have a fart chambered, and pushing is going to force it out. But here’s the thing— he deserves to smell my fart. When another man is standing at a urinal in silence for several seconds with you standing right behind him— when you don’t hear that fluid hissing— you are giving him stage fright. Back the fuck off. Do not acknowledge what you’re doing, just silently, courteously walk away.

This guy must be from a background so fucking manly that he has no concept of what stage fright is. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing because any time he’s ever had to take a piss— like, he could piss behind the person singing the goddamn national anthem at Fenway and a clear golden stream would come out instantly. His dad taught him to change the oil when he was five. He has eaten mammals that he killed himself, maybe with a bow. Basically he is Burt Reynolds and I am Ned Beatty and the architect of this bathroom is the hillbilly laughing hilariously while he rapes me and refers to my underwear as “panties.” If the blackberry dude knew what I was going through he would probably say “go piss sittin’ down, Susie.”

Anyway. Point being— if you are near a dude standing at a pisser and you don’t hear the sound of piss, leave immediately. Common courtesy.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

The Power of Prayer: Part 2

A little background. Remember the future wife? I prayed to God that I meet my future wife at the Short Stop; that night a hot chick talked to me. I went out with her, and a) I wasn’t that into her and b) I kind of blew it.

More background: last week I went out with a girl off OkCupid. She was kind of retarded, but a) really, really, really beautiful and b) turned out to be literally my next door neighbor. Like, she told me a bunch of stories about my cat. I had absolutely no interest in her as a human being, but God damn she was fucking gorgeous. One of those girls— like, beauty is just the absence of ugly. It’s impossible to describe a beautiful woman’s face. For a guy, you can say “strong jaw,” “high cheekbones,” etc. etc., or “chiseled” features, but for a girl, it’s basically— all beautiful women have the face of a six year old white child. And she does. And I took her home; it got physical. We didn’t fuck but she did get on top of me and rub the outside of her pussy on my dick till I blew a load, and I performed oral sex on her. Not in that order. But it was a win. I texted her the next day and said come over Friday and have some chicken.

Nothing back. Nothing for days. You start thinking- oh shit, did I blow it? Did I have no game, and should have waited, etc. Well, fuck that. Fuck “game.” If you even have to think about game you have already lost. I text girls when I want to see them. Or when I think of a funny text. I call them when I feel like talking to them. Which is rarely. The second you start communicating with a script and an agenda you are completely fucked; you are trapped in this counterintuitive, mercenary process, undermining yourself at every turn.

But still. She is really beautiful. And before I sent that text I had to think about the best wording. This shows I had already failed. She could smell the desperation in that text as it traveled up to a fucking satellite three thousand miles away and back down to her fifty feet from my fucking door. And so I didn’t hear back. And I started thinking— well, what if she didn’t get my text? What if she texted me back and I didn’t get it. What if, what if, what if— really? Because that annoying text from my mom came through just fine, and my text to my boss telling him I fucked something up went out and got a response fucking INSTANTANEOUSLY. No. No one ever does not get your text. You do not ever not get someone else’s text. You are a hideous undesirable loser and no one will ever love you, is what the problem is.

Anyway, I texted her again; she eventually sent an awkward rejection. Fine. I was fine sending her a second text because I knew I already blew it. When you’ve blown it, the one merciful thing is now there is definitely no more need for “game.” Text her all you want. Get it out of your system. It’s such a relief not having to try to be cool. Then she IM’d me and instantly jumped off IM before I could respond. Whatever, she is trying to say: we are neighbors, let’s be friendly. Fine. Great. But still. I keep thinking about her. When my phone vibrates, I pick that shit up like a cobra striking at a mongoose because MAYBE IT’S A TEXT FROM HER SAYING “LET’S HANG OUT TONIGHT” OMG OMG OMG!!! This is because she is beautiful. I fully acknowledge that she is a retard whom I would never, ever want to date but a beautiful girl just flips a switch. You can’t stop thinking about her.

Anyway. Fast forward to last night. I am drunk and in a bad mood. I decide to go to the Short Stop for additional beer. As I’m walking down the hill, in a moment of sadness, I ONCE AGAIN pray to God: “please let my future wife be there.” Only this time, in my mind, there is a dickish acknowledgement that the last time He answered this prayer it was subpar. At the bar, ordering my drink, I see a guy talking to the bartender, asking if he needs more ice. Remember this guy; he is important.

I head to the back room and sit down and THERE IS THIS FUCKING CHICK hanging all over the barback who asked about the ice. And I have no choice but to sit down 8 feet away from them, knowing that no one is joining me, I am the only alone person in the entire bar, and I now have to watch her being grossly intimate with the guy who I’m sure has been casually boning her and every other hot customer for six months, and FUCK, you know, FUCK. Why do I get up at the crack of dawn to suffer for nothing in an office all day when bartenders are gleefully spreading herpes to every hot piece of ass on the planet with no fucking effort whatsoever. Life is meaningless if you’re not where the pussy is.

Anyway. God nailed me on this one. I said the prayer with kind of a sardonic little asshole twist to it and He heard me, and was like: you want to mock Me, fuckface? How about some nutcrushing rejection. And then I’m going to make you see exactly who is boning the girl you’re obsessing over, and it’s going to be the exact person whom you most envy and resent, and whose life you could not possibly hope to have. Now better head home, you gotta put together the fucking company Christmas gift in the morning.

I have to admit, it was a good one. Nice work, Lord.

Thursday, December 09, 2010

Game

I have no game. I hate people who have game. I hate any other man who is successful with women. DJ's. Guys in bands. Good looking guys. Actors. Children's entertainers- people who have jobs writing and doing voices for Disney Channel shows. Photographers. Anyone who has not completely sold or bastardized their dream is much more attractive to women than me. Anyone who is not completely self-loathing and whose face does not look like it was hit with a shovel. I would say money, but I don't really believe it is money. Dudes with money are maybe appealing to aging Russians.

But dudes who occasionally clean their apartment. Dudes who are not so spent after 10 hours of self-debasement for nothing that they can barely struggle off the fucking couch to pour another drink. Dudes who are not nakedly and transparently hoping to rawdog you and never speak to you again, they probably do better. Not dudes who drive flashy cars, but dudes who, if their air filter had become detached, and made an incredibly loud rattling sound whenever the car was idling, and they knew for a fact that the repair was a simple matter of driving a screw through the bottom of the air filter pan-- dudes who either purchased that screw and did it themselves or took the fifteen minutes to have the mechanic right down the fucking street do it, instead of just listening to that incredibly loud thump-rattle at every stop light for over six months-- those dudes probably do better with women than me. Dudes who have traveled. Dudes who have big dicks and there is really no quality you can put your finger on that suggests they have a big dick, yet somehow you could easily pick him out of a lineup as the dude with a big dick-- those dudes. You would not pick me out of a lineup as having a big dick. Especially if it was a lineup of dicks.

Dudes whose TV and/or stereo is actualy hooked up to something so they don't have to cue up a bunch of youtube videos that take an incredibly long time to load on their shitty internet when they take you home-- although, they will be playing some bullshit, not Claude Debussy like me. Still, they do better. Dudes who are able to withhold at least for a few dates their total hatred of their job, family, dating life, personal habits, the gym, etc. etc. Dudes who do not insist on trying to make out with you right after a cigarette even if you don't smoke. Dudes who do not have a nest of giant spindly prehistoric-looking centipedes in their tiny bathroom that startle when you turn the lights on and crawl under the toilet seat where you are about to put your ass. Dudes who do not confess their belief that women peak physically at 15 to 32-year-olds. Who do not confess to repeatedly hiring prostitutes even though it's clear they were sex slaves forced over in the rusty hull of some freighter from Korea. Dudes who do not respond to tales of child sexual abuse with a "shining my helmet" gesture. Those dudes do better than me.

Not short dudes, though.

Diary 11/7/10- angry at OkCupid profiles

God dammit— why are all you girls so fucking boring. This is how old I am, this is where I’m from, this is what I do-- I love my job! I love my family and friends! Go fuck your family and friends. I hope your family and friends are all on a bus and it explodes in a fiery wreck. I hope your job fires you and you are forced to suck dick under an underpass. You will wish your family and friends were there to help you out, but they will have died in a fiery wreck.

Just— you fucking chickenshits have to start showing a little actual personality. Who fucking cares what people think of you— you’re on the goddamn internet. Nobody cares.

Or— let’s just... let’s just assume you love your family and friends. From now on, let’s only make it a point to mention them if you do not love your family and friends. Everybody loves their family and friends, even me. Let’s just say something about your family if they beat and molested you; that’s the only thing that could possibly make them interesting. Even I love my family, although I would gladly trade them in for a family with a shitload of money, and my friends I end up fully replacing about every year and a half.

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Diary 11/15/10- trying to remember girls I have boned recently

Anyway, Molly. Sorry, but you should have been more interesting and you definitely should not have made me come in my hand. You are on fucking birth control, for Christ’s sake, and like— she specifically instructed me not to come on her— I wasn’t planning on blowing it all over her face or anything but i had to grip my helmet tightly and painfully to prevent cum from spraying all over the place. This is ridiculous. I hate how’s she’s so squeamish about basic sex acts, like— she won’t suck dick. She’s really cute and she can be really cool but also, you know, she used to be fat and is really Jewy looking and so is still insecure about her appearance, who knows.

Brooke. Brooke, I am sorry, I know you like me, and I am blowing you off. I must have been the fucking catch of the century for you, and I don’t mean that in a self-aggrandizing way. I mean that in a way demeaning of you. I wanted to go out with you because you are nineteen years old, and that made me hot, but what kind of fucking nineteen year old has saggy boobs. Apparently you used to be fat. Well, get fat again. And you live in a squalid, filthy studio in long beach and have no car, and when I sleep over it’s on a goddamn pullout sofa bed with a fucking— trying to think of a funny word for steel bar— whatever, with a steel bar pinioning you in the middle, or on your roommate’s brick-hard little futon-couch. And when you come to visit me I have to go pick you up at the train station, and then drop you off- no. Find yourself a nice local boy.


Adelina. Adelina, you are a tough nut to crack. I fuck you once, I ask you out, actually I look for you at Fuck Yeah Fest and then ask you over to dinner; both times you don’t hang out with me. Then Leah invites me over saying you want to see me, which- great. You are goddamn beautiful. I fuck you again. But then I ask you out again, like, in the car dropping you off I say we should go on a date, and you are unenthusiastic, and then later I ask you out again, and you say you can’t— and then, what? Do you want me to just fuck you? That would be fine! But God forbid you should just say that. Anyway, now I lost your number so that’s that. God, what other girls, Leeanne- who else. Before that it was Emily, right? Am I missing any other Okcupid girls? There was a another girl, Jen P., I didn’t fuck her—- I feel like I’m missing someone. Who was before that? That gobliny-looking chick who knows Josh. Big tits. I feel like there was another Mexican chick in there. Was it Diana before her? Jesus Christ, I can’t even remember- I know there’s a chick I fucked in there somewhere that I’m not remembering. That’s horrible. Leeanne was like right after the Fourth of July. Was Diana after her? Harper was before that. Emily; Emily was a good month, the chick who was looking for casual sex on Okcupid who sent me pictures of her butthole, who used to date drug dealers and whore for them, who starred in porn. Who I actually liked and hung out with a lot but when I finally introduced you to my friends you were retarded. But you live nearby, just like Adelina. Jesus, who else. I’ll need to go through my Okcupid messages.

STD's

As you know, I had an STD once. It was “non-gonococcal urethritis.” This means- something is in your dick, hurting it, and we know that it is not gonorrhea. We don’t know what it is, but we know what it isn’t. Thanks science.

I took a bunch of antibiotics for it. It still did not go away. This was terrifying of course. I went to doctor after doctor, had my dickhole abrasively rubbed against microscope slides, had a guy milk my fucking prostate to test if some identifiable virus was lurking in the very most profound depths of my well of pre-cum— no. Nothing. I was terrified, but every doctor was just like: “meh.” Don’t worry about it. Sometimes this shit happens, and eventually it just goes away.

Really? Because I was told that if you get an STD you will carry it for life, infect everyone you ever look at, and then when the poor chick goes to have a baby 20 years from now its eyes will come out sealed shut with massive grapelike clusters of warts and the fucking thing will meekly flail its Chernobyl flippers before exploding and taking out 20 city blocks, and it will all be your fault. I was told that if you even think about sticking your dick in someone without a condom, a dental dam, spermicidal jelly, and the pill you will instantly get AIDS and impregnate the girl with a spider’s nest full of three-headed demons.

We were all told this, and so we all dutifully go to the testing center and then white-knuckle it for three weeks thinking yes, I definitely have AIDS, why am I even going through the formality of getting tested, I should start drawing up my will now because by sundown I will look like the Bennetton “Jesus” ad and, even worse, I will have to make a bunch of awkward phone calls to chicks I boned off the internet… God, I hope she doesn’t start talking about her French bulldog’s Halloween costume again…

And it’s all bullshit. You are not going to get AIDS if you’re not gay. Or you might, but you might also get killed by an escaped gorilla from the zoo and I think the odds are about the same. This does not apply if you’re Namibian, or Precious, but for just about everybody else: stop worrying about it.

A lot of my friends ask me, when I tell them, you know, that I sometimes get laid—you’re using a condom every time, right? NO! Of course not! Maybe- MAYBE the first time, if it’s on the first date, and the chick is skittish, but then after that night of sleeping half-drunk and naked next to each other, you KNOW at least the helmet is going in raw while you’re spooning and you have that monster morning wood. Is there anyone on the face of the planet who does not do this? Bone the girl raw with your morning wood the day after a one night stand? I mean, sometimes she kinds of snaps into lucidity and says wait, you better pull out and put a condom on. And I will comply if she’s non-horny enough to actually stick with this mandate, but all that does is ruin the sex. If you have herpes or some shit, well, we now have herpes. We might as well at least enjoy a good fuck.

Although herpes is one of those ones— one of those trump cards where the sex educator gets to say not even a condom can prevent Herpes. Well what am I gonna do, not fuck? No thanks. Even if you use a condom, you can still transmit herpes and HPV, and 70% (or some other varying but invariably huge percentage) of the sexually active population has HPV, but it never shows up, it has no symptoms and you can’t test for it-- well WHAT THE FUCK IS IT THEN? Something that 70% of people have, but does nothing, and you can’t do anything about it, and… and… JUST DON’T FUCK, OK? BECAUSE OF JESUS. I MEAN, SCIENCE.

Obviously— obviously, if this 70% of people have something that there is no way we can know whether or not we have—obviously, I have this thing. And anyone who would possibly fuck someone like me has this thing. Sorry, I have it. And now I’m giving it to you. You too will have this invisible boogeyman in your pussy. Maybe you will have cervical cancer in 2045. If 70% of people have this thing that has a real good shot of giving you cervical cancer, by then we will have guys in gas masks driving mule carts to collect every woman in America for cervical cancer mass graves.

Anyway. Let’s all admit that fucking without a condom is way, way better— like a million times better than fucking with one, and anyone who makes you use one is a shrewish spoilsport, and pulling out actually works, and if you get some bumps that show up on your dick once every couple months the only real consequence is that you can’t fuck rawdog anymore. And let’s not ruin my brief postcoital moment of not thinking about sex by grilling me about when was the last time I got tested, and do you do this with a lot of girls and etc. etc. Yes, I do this with tons of girls, no, I almost never get tested, and guess what: it’s going to be fine. Now pass me a towel.

Internet Pussy: The Cave of Forgotten Dreams

I’m good at internet dating.

This means I’m good at taking a girl out, getting her a little drunk, and then fucking her. I’m good at steering the second date to dinner at my house so I don’t have to drive to get laid. I hear a lot of “I’m not usually like this” so I figure, you know, I must be onto something. Some skill I have at getting girls to fuck me that other dudes lack.*

Anyway. Point being, I am good at internet dating, and that is horrible, because it’s one of those things that if you’ve had enough practice to be good at it you’ve failed in some larger sense. Like— being good at pulling your own teeth. Being good at showing people you’re not a pussy when you show up to a new prison. It’s awesome that you’re a badass but the idea is that you figure your shit out and don’t have to go back. I wanted a relationship out of this, not 5,000 pieces of pussy. I wanted some god damn companionship. Someone I can call when the clouds are pretty or something and say, you know, go look at the pretty clouds.

Instead, I have merely gotten a ton of meaningless ass. And then I’ve taken the confidence from getting that ass and taken it into the real world to get other, even more meaningless ass. And it’s made me complacent. Maybe there is viable girlfriend material out there but I can’t be bothered to look for it because I’m driving out to Sherman Oaks to bone some nineteen year old.**

Unfortunately there is no way I (or you) am ever going to get an actual girlfriend off the internet. Never in a million years. Girlfriends happen when you are forced to be around someone. Like, she sits across from you at work. Probably she is not the hottest girl in the office but you get to talking and joking around a little bit and she becomes one of those girls where there is just something about her. You are spending half your work day ichatting with her and then by night you head home to feverishly masturbate to the thought of bending her over her desk. This is what the beginning of love is, jerking off to the same person every day. And she starts dropping hints that the boyfriend isn’t quite living up to expectations. There is some trait that is missing in him that will never be there. Something that you have. And then one night you invite her out to a party and she drives you back and follows you into your house and the next Monday you don’t quite know how you’re going to act normal around her and was it just a one time thing and etc. etc. but for fucking once it’s actually exciting to go in to the office again. Something like that.

Or you take the same class or whatever. Or you run in the same social circle. Point being that you have to be around this person for some other reason, and slowly and naturally grow attracted to them over time. Once effort is introduced— once one person has to ask out the other person, because she looked cute in the grocery store, or is someone you would totally bone and she laughed at one of your jokes at a party— once effort is introduced, game is introduced. And game is just an I-out-ignore-you contest. It becomes a delicate little war where just one little misstep and the whole thing is fucked, and you’re forced into acting off a script and not seeming too eager, or whatever. And it becomes unnatural and weird and you start to resent the other person for not texting you back, but when she finally does you are nonetheless thrilled to get a text from this person you now hate,*** and you are strategizing, and the whole thing becomes work. Like you’re trying to land the fucking Proctor & Gamble account.

Anyway. I’m thirty-four years old and employed, and I still think like this. I am turning into the childless middle-aged woman with two pugs who pathetically brags to her coworkers about the handsome orthodontist off EHarmony who’s taking her to the Ground Round later. At this age my ball sack is getting to the point where it’s full of two-headed retards, and it’s about god damn time I found a nice girl and settled down. But it’s never going to happen. If you like them, they never like you. If they like you, you never like them. And we’re designed that way. The most repulsive thing in the world to a woman is when you are interested in her. It’s fucking perverse.





*But then again, after the 10,000th time you hear “I’m not usually like this,” you start to wonder. I mean, I bet you are usually like this. I’m sure as fuck usually like this and if I had my way I would always be like this. And what’s more, why are you telling me that you’re not usually like this— do you think I care? I hope you are usually like this. Fucking strangers off the internet is awesome and we should all do it more. I don’t give a fuck if you fucked some other guy before me— I’m not your Uzbek father trying to trade you for sheep.

** Being a guy is so much about getting ass that sometimes, like- you always want to fuck, but also, I frequently find myself getting ass for the sake of being able to get other, future, ass. Like, if I get this ass, if I then run into other superior ass soon it is much more likely that I will get that ass due to the confidence from just having gotten this ass.

There is just nothing else that really gives you that bone-deep level of confidence. I can have amazing things going on in my career, look great, ripped, white teeth and a tan— I would trade all of that for the feeling when you wake up after 4 hours of drunken sleep next to some random girl you porked off the internet. When you have just torn off some new ass, there is literally nothing in this world that can get to you. When I find out I have terminal cancer, if it’s right after I got some ass, I will be smiling. Everything else can go wrong, but AT LEAST YOU GOT LAID.

***By the way, text me back, you fucking twat. I know you read this.