The Pussy Read online

  THE PUSSY

  DELICIOUS

  TACOS

  What Now, She Says

  Tippy the Thirsty Squirrel

  Lunch Break Diary: What’s on Your Mind

  OKCupid: Terms of Service

  Shit Jobs: McDonald’s

  God Damn Do I Want to Fuck My Intern

  Autopilot

  Tell Me Your Fantasy, She Says

  Coffee Shop Diary: A Pretty Girl

  Unemployment Diary: Want Ads

  Product Review: Tenga® Easy Beat Egg™ Artificial Vagina, “Silky”

  Coffee Shop Diary: The Smell of My Wang

  This Is All Your Fault Megan

  Shit Jobs: Telemarketing

  The Soap

  Can’t Live with ‘Em, Can’t Live without ‘Em

  There Is No God, But

  Sunday in the Park

  Girl in the Window

  Crimes and Misdemeanors

  Hangover Diary: Rocktober

  Tomorrow is Another Day

  Seasonal Affective Disorder

  Underage Ass

  Drunk Thoughts on Global Capitalism

  Coffee Shop Diary: Megadrought

  The Heart Touching Magic

  Write Her a Lovely Message…

  You Should Message Me If, Part 3

  What Do You Do, Part 4

  Something About Some Woman

  Sobriety, Day Two

  Nature’s Miracles

  Instrument of Thy Will

  Ass

  It Will Be Very Unpleasant

  But Enough about My Ass

  Ass Part 4

  The Wolf Witch

  How to Pick Up Girls

  Take Me Home Tonight

  Postmortem

  App Review: Tinder for iOS

  A Tinder™ Success Story

  Fetish

  I Just Want to Eat Asian Ass Forever

  Letter to My 20 Year Old Self

  Her

  OKCupid: What I’m Doing with My Life Part 2

  Worst Case Scenario

  Responsible Citizen

  Let’s Go Out for Coffee, She Says

  The Messiah

  Maria

  Coffee Shop Diary: An Armpit

  Normal Human Interaction

  Slayer

  Coffee Shop Diary: First World Problems

  I Can’t Tonight But How about Tuesday, She Says

  How I Met Your Mother

  First Date

  Philippines Vacation

  On the Road to My Solitary Death

  Adulthood

  Ideal Behavior

  Mr. Universe

  Jack

  This is Why I Can’t Have Kids

  One More for the Road

  Shit Piss Cunt Fuck

  William Randolph Thirst

  God

  Second Date Idea

  Progress Not Perfection

  OKCupid: My Life is Perfect

  I Am Not Allowed to Think about Hot Young Pussy

  My Brief Abstinence Career

  I’d Rather Watch Hitler Rape My Mom Than Date a Woman My Own Age

  Fuck Los Angeles

  Toxic Masculinity

  Don’t Take Your Love to Town

  Dirty Mexican Cunt

  A Rich Inner Life

  Dear Angela

  Gender Studies

  Finally, Some Good News, Part 1

  Where the Heart Is

  If It Flies Floats or Fucks

  One Small Act of Kindness

  That Pussy Will Cost You

  Sugar Baby

  Tell Me You Love Me

  Write Some More You Lazy Fuck

  It’s Over Between Us

  Art Review: Self-Portrait (Performance with Object) by Emma Sulkowicz

  Bud

  Just Stroke My Butthole and Tell Me How Great I Am

  I’m Too Compassionate, Is My Problem

  Fuck the Future, Burn Your Money

  What Now, She Says

  We go out a couple times. We make out, maybe we bone. Or maybe we don’t, and I just never call you. Or maybe we do, and then we get married and move slightly out of town to some place where people of modest means can get a pretty big yard, and we get a goat, but the fucking thing is too loud and keeps chewing through the fence- they are surprisingly clever animals. Maybe it actually figures out the latch. But point being the goat keeps getting out and getting into the neighbor’s yard and eating his heirloom tomatoes or whateverthefuck- maybe we laugh at this. Maybe this discord with our neighbors only brings us closer together, like, us against the world. Maybe not, maybe you never wanted to get it in the first place, maybe you never wanted to move to the suburbs, maybe you secretly blame me for everything moving too fast and now you’re stuck here out in Calabasas or something and now you’re like 33 and if you leave me you’ll never have biological children, but if you stay with me you don’t know how you can stand even one more fucking second in this house in the middle of nowhere and separating the bank accounts is going to be such a god damned pain in the ass, and the goat isn’t cute anymore, it was a stupid idea, and it has an expected life span of like 35 more years but any place you give it away to might use it for meat and that would pretty much be unconscionable. You don’t want it, but you can’t get rid of it. That’s what it’s going to be like with you and me in like four years. Maybe. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t have a fuckin crystal ball.

  Sunday Call with Mom

  Have to call my mother. Haven’t spoken to her in three weeks. This puts a lot of pressure on the conversation. No doubt she has done things in the past three weeks, and I will hear about those things. It will now take three times as long to hear about all the things. Meals she has prepared; Amnesty International meetings she went to. Things pertaining to yoga, her yoga instructor. Her yoga instructor’s husband. He is a musician. He plays in a band; perhaps my mother will have gone to see the band perform, typically at an Italian restaurant. I will hear about the quality of the show.

  Then I will be expected to say things. My things should also, logically, take three times as long as normal to say because of the lacuna in our communication. But I don’t talk about work. I hate talking about work; I am ashamed of how menial and unrewarding my job is, plus, bringing it up in any detail makes the humiliation and trauma fresh to me, and I don’t want her to hear this in my voice. I don’t want my mother to know that my life is mostly horrible. I also can’t talk to her about the thing that makes me the most happy, which is having unprotected sex with women much younger than me, right after I meet them. I can’t tell her how I’m extremely good at this and I’m pleased that I have become so practiced at it. That I had feared that as my age advanced and my hair turned gray and yet I still didn’t have any success or money, that the type of woman I am attracted to, which is ones that are over fifteen years younger than me– I had feared that I would lose my access to these women, that they would see me as a gross boring old pervert. But in fact it is easier when you are thirty six years old to have unprotected sex very fast with nineteen year olds than it has been at any other time. It is unbelievably easy, like a joke, and I can see this going on for ten more years, and their bodies are so beautiful, their pussies just lightly musky and fresh-tasting; I love when I’m fucking them to pretend that I’m going to ejaculate inside them and my copious seed will find purchase in their fertile and healthy young wombs and they will be pregnant and their lives will be ruined; this gives me so much happiness and pleasure. I cannot tell my mother about this. She likes to hear about the cat though.

  I can tell her about birds I’ve seen and days I’ve spent in the park or mountains, and meals I’ve prepared. We can discuss different techniques for roasting a chicken, though frankly, I have absolutely perfected
roasting a chicken and it should be a one sided conversation. But she tipped me off to a side dish where you simply halve a baguette and sit the chicken right on top of it, allowing fats and juices to soak into the bread which becomes a moist, rich, crusty sort of toast. This was revolutionary for me because previously roasting a chicken was a day long labor due to the side dishes: mashed potatoes or pommes Anna; drunkenly wrestling with wet slippery tubers and sharp blades– having an effortless yet delicious starch means a chicken can be roasted after work on a Tuesday night. Just because you have a stressful career is no reason you shouldn’t live well.

  I kind of want to tell her: Ma, I’m all fucked up, I’m trapped in this job and it’s crushing me and I have no way out, and I’m a sex addict and I always hurt people and I’m going to get AIDS; I drink like a hobo and wake up on weekdays so hung over that my eyeballs hurt; sometimes I get so drunk on work nights that I break things and cry. I don’t know what I’m gonna do and please please help me. And if she knew that was how I felt she would desperately want to hear it. But I don’t want to worry her. I don’t want her to be sad. And it’s true, you know, I do like cooking chicken and looking at birds.

  I wonder what shit she has going on that she’s keeping from me. Maybe she’s fucking nineteen year olds too, who knows.

  Tippy the Thirsty Squirrel

  If I didn’t have to fuck I’d move to Montana. Get a cabin; some acreage. Out there you can own a pond. Maybe; I have no fucking idea. But I’m pretty sure you can get a place on a fuckton of land with a breathtaking view of snow capped mountains and possibly a creek running through it where you can flyfish, if you’re into flyfishing. Huge meadows, maybe lightly forested, that bloom in the spring with tiny delicate wildflowers. Songbirds massing on trees to pick berries in the fall; stopping through on their way to Panama. Elk. Deer. Wolves maybe. Bears. Maybe one nosy and mischievous bear with whom you are constantly in an arms race as he finds more and more fiendishly clever ways to get into your garbage and you find more and more Rube Goldbergian ways to keep him out, and you secretly respect and take delight in such an adversary until one day he mauls your dog and you have to just shoot him. Then he becomes an awesome rug for your hearth. His face snarling in the firelight, even though in life he just looked a bit curious and dumb like a gas station attendant who hasn’t done math in fifteen years trying to figure out a piece of long division.

  If I didn’t have to fuck I’d move to Montana. Cold clean snows, a big garden; big blackberry patch like you would find in the woods when you were a kid and come out looking like the Passion of the Christ. A wife who would home can these berries. Scold me for eating too many fresh; that’s a jar of preserves you’re gonna miss in the winter. I will look up guiltily with my lips purple and give her one of those chimp grins with seeds in my teeth. Incorrigible. She’ll playfully bat me with her wooden spoon, which she has boiled to prevent botulism. My wife is no home canning slouch.

  Little towheaded kids running around, swimming in the creek; I have given them a very serious lecture on staying away from rattlesnakes. Dad is usually jovial so it’s a little scary when he’s serious. The rattlesnake is more scared of you than you are of him. Freezer with an elk in it. My wife is sick of elk jerky; we all are. We are sick of elk stew and elk fritters and elk salad and elk whateverthefuck but it’s going to be the better part of a decade before we are done eating this god damn elk. Elk chili. She is sick of conscientiously braising game meats so it’s not like biting into a fan belt when you try to eat it. Just once she would like to fry something in a pan for five minutes and be done. Just once she would like to order some fucking Chinese, but it’s the god damn Pony Express out here. There are no Chinese people in Montana. A guy would have to haul those little paper cartons over a mountain pass on a mule to get Chinese food here.

  But yeah… just a cabin in a big field surrounded by flowers and animals. Big clouds at sunset; big thunderstorms. Once I find a woman I’m going to take her away there. Live on a little compound.

  That’s what I want. A wife and towheaded kids and we can talk to each other and then do the rest of our talking on the internet. Because the things that make me happy are the sky, plants, and animals. The squirrel who drinks from my cat’s water bowl, who tries to get her paws on the rim and her little head at water level but just ends up tipping the bowl over and drinking the runoff– work beats the shit out of me, and I’m always hung over, but this ne’er-do-well thirsty squirrel makes me smile every time. A hummingbird drinking from a flower. Hawks circling and they do that “screeeeeee” just like on TV, echoing through the canyons as though life were returning from a commercial break on Northern Exposure. Things that make me smile are squirrels and flowers and hawks; things that make me miserable are offices and traffic and phones. Liars and hacks; hustlers; loud pushy cruel Hollywood jerkoffs. Give me a rural mountain pastor with a secret small penis humiliation porn stash every time.

  Now all I need is the wife. Someone who shares this dream with me. Wake up with the dawn, look out at the meadow, smile at our towheaded kids, fresh trout from the stream for breakfast; live a simpler life. Someone who wants to get rid of this corruption of the spirit with me and sit on the porch and sing and talk in the twilight; you home can the berries and I’ll protect you from the wolves.

  Lunch Break Diary: What’s on Your Mind

  Always something annoying going on. Never enough time. Feel pressured; the need to put something on the blog. But this god damn squeaky door opening and closing behind me. This slouchy unlaid nerd walking back to his car with his sneakers squealing. Two maintenance guys up on the deck of the bungalow above yacking endlessly about different kinds of caulk. This new caulk they have now, it holds good and you wouldn’t believe how fast it dries. Now they are joking about caulk. But not the joke you would think. I guess if you discuss “caulk” 5,000 times, making a “cock” joke is no longer funny. But I bet it takes a real long motherfucking time for that to happen.

  People walking by with their stupid conversations. Nobody is ever talking about the thing they want to talk about: fucking. Or if you’re hungry, maybe chicken. Some guy walking by having to listen to a chick talk about her god damn career; how well she gets along with her various colleagues. He cannot say “I see your point, and also: you have large titties. I would like to see and hold and touch and suck on your large titties, please.” The only thing he really thinks, he can’t say.

  That’s the only thing I’m ever thinking when I’m talking to women. I would like to see and hold and touch and suck on your titties. May I do that please. I would like to sniff your used panties, woman who rings up my hamburger. I would like you to gently fondle my testicles, girl who works in the upstairs office. I would like you and your female boss who is also attractive to lightly run your palms over my naked back and slowly encroach into the forbidden space on top of my buttocks and delicately stroke my ass crack and then flip me over and suck my cock in tandem, is what I would like, please. And, yes, it is also hot outside. You have a point there. But back to the thing I am thinking: I want to bury my face in your hot sweaty pussy and I know you’re gonna be nervous because it’s so hot outside that you think it’s got a little too much musk going on, but I love it. I want the smell to stay on my face for days so I can get hard just by taking a whiff of the air. God did a great job with cuntmusk, because you can’t really wash it off. You can smell a ghost of that scent on your hands for days. It is especially suited to guys whose hobby is playing classical guitar, since the strict nail requirements mean the hand you reach deep into a girl’s musky cooch is different than the hand you jerk yourself off with. You don’t have to keep stopping the action to smell it. I want your cuntmusk to be all over me. I want it to linger for days. OK, you have a nice night too. See you tomorrow.

  I would like you to stop talking and come into my bedroom and have unprotected sex with me immediately, every girl I have ever known. I have jerked off to the thought of date raping you many times, and ma
king you pregnant against your will, girl who thinks of me as a close and trusted friend. Any detail you have ever confidentially revealed to me that is related to sex, masturbation, or certain parts of your anatomy, I have incorporated into my fuck fantasies, even if you thought you were being gross or joking. When you talk about a gross shit you took it makes me think about your asshole and when I think about your asshole I think about fucking you in your asshole. If I could date rape you and get away with it– if some genie said go ahead, I guarantee you won’t get in trouble– I’m not saying it’s a “yes,” but it’s not quite a one hundred per cent “no,” girl who thinks nothing of being alone around me while drunk. When the bombs fall and we all turn into Mad Max, don’t think you’re gonna get my clean drinking water for free.

  But instead we talk about what the women want to talk about, which is anything else that is ultimately nothing. It’s not even a compromise. If the world were equitable between men and women conversations would be fifty per cent “I would like to see and suck on your titties” and fifty per cent “I joined this kickball league, one of the girls is a graphic designer so she’s gonna make us awesome uniforms, etc. etc. etc.” and everything else. Instead it’s one hundred per cent things that don’t matter and zero per cent the only thing that does matter. And if you ever did talk about the one thing you thought, you’d get thrown in jail.

  Anyway, back to work.

  OKCupid: Terms of Service

  Any girl who smokes will fuck you. Any girl with her body type facetiously listed as “used up” will fuck you. Any woman of Hispanic extraction will fuck you. Any Asian woman of any body type besides “thin” will fuck you. In fact, any woman at all with a body type outside of “thin” or “fit” will fuck you. Any girl who agrees to the first meeting place you propose, which is far from her but close to your insect-infested jack shack, will fuck you; any girl who says “that’s a little far, can we meet in (X neighborhood) instead?” will not fuck you and should be jettisoned.

  Any girl who talks about “my son is my world and I need a man who is OK with that” will not fuck you, but any woman who has a kid and doesn’t belabor it in her profile will fuck you. Be sure to pull out. Any girl with pics of her tattoos will fuck you. Any girl with a picture of her dog will not fuck you. Dog dick only I guess. Any girl who doesn’t own a car will fuck you. Any girl who lives with her parents will fuck you, maybe just to get out of the house. Armenian girls will fuck you but only on the second date. Jewish girls will surprise you. Most of them are a pain in the ass but once in a while God’s chosen people will throw you a sexy little whore. Check how much she drinks. Black girls, I don’t know; all the ones on OKC are mutants or illiterate. We need to get word out to the community.