The Pussy Read online

  The new medications were covered by insurance. It was a pill in those days; you took it with breakfast and forty five minutes later you ceased forming new memories. He was nervous, but on the first day he came to swimming in and out of remembering in his car, and there was a post-it on the dash. He had beaten the office’s all time one day record for customer retentions. On the passenger seat was a joke trophy the guys kept in the break room. You knew, when you were “under,” that it all didn’t matter. You were the same person but you knew it would be like it never happened. You sucked it up and you kicked ass and baby got a new pair of shoes.

  He had gotten ahead. Or so they told him. He was the top retainer of customers in the division and supervised a handful of his fellows. Emily didn’t have to work anymore. The cars got better and the houses got bigger. Every day he came home bright and fresh as a daisy, smiling. Emily was there with a chicken pot pie. The light of his life. She had cleaned the house and carefully rolled out a thousand layers of pastry for the chicken pot pie crust, which she layered in a becoming manner across the top. He was 44 now, although he hadn’t experienced about 10 of those years.

  One day, about a half hour before his shift ended, his stent broke. And he was awake.

  He was on all fours. His belly was full, impossibly full, something big and hot was pushing into him and it hurt. He craned his neck around. A black man the size of a Tyrannosaur was palming his ass with a hot hand while he forced what felt like a yule log into him. The man was covered in shiny black painted-on latex and was not smiling. He himself was wearing a dress, a ballerina’s dress, and there was something in his mouth. It was a ball gag coated in something like Vick’s Vap-o-Rub that made his eyes water. He scrambled away on his hands and knees, screaming into the gag. It took what felt like minutes to squirm off the startled guy’s member. He was in a huge room, impossibly huge, a cathedral lit by fire and all around him impossible horrible things were happening. A long dining room table with children eating from a tureen of human shit, an elderly woman skewered by a screaming stallion, everywhere dozens of people and animals were being fucked, being tortured, screaming, laughing, crying. High above at a podium Saul Krauss, of the Connecticut Krausses, Chairman and CEO of United Los Angeles Times/ America Online Incorporated, was overseeing it all, issuing commands, laughing and masturbating.

  He got the gag off, screamed again, got up, tried to run, but found he had a diaper around his knees. Waddled wildly until he could get if off. There looked to be a door under a rack where a naked man was wired to a car battery, shrieking. He ran for it. Great Merciful God, it was unlocked. It opened into a beige hallway with synthetic carpet and florescent lights and acoustical tile. A poster of a man climbing a mountain encouraged DETERMINATION. He ran. He wanted the way out but realized he had barely ever seen the inside of his office while he could remember. Out a window he saw cars. The parking lot. To the left. Many stairs, and then he tripped and scraped his knees on the asphalt. He tasted salt. He was weeping, and the seed of many men was smeared across his face. He puked, and ran some more. The parking space, in fucking Siberia. He sped home, gibbering and crying.

  She wouldn’t be expecting him for half an hour yet. He could smell the leftover chicken pot pie reheating. He ran up the stairs. He was still in the ballerina dress but he had to see her, had to tell her. They were raping people. There was no job, no company; the whole thing was just some rich guy keeping slaves so he could jerk off. We have to get out of here. Move to out to the desert. It’ll be hard with no money but I can live as long as I know you love me. She was in the bathroom; the door was half open. Her hand was in the crook of her arm, turning on her medication.

  Tell Me Your Fantasy, She Says

  I mean: I want to fuck you. That’s it. You know what fucking is like. The dick goes in the hole. Maybe I’ll put your wrists behind your head but I’m not gonna choke you or any of that shit on the first date. My cat will probably come in the sliding door I’ve left open, walk in the room, and meow. We’ll have a little chuckle. The mood will be ruined. I will continue shuffling my flagging erection into you in a workmanlike manner but I won’t be able to cum. I’ll jokingly apologize and get up and get more booze. Give the cat a can of food. Then you’ll stand behind me as I read shit on reddit. We’ll laugh but you’ll be thinking: what the fuck? This guy could have my wet young pussy and he wants to watch Russian dash cam videos? I’ll be thinking: who cares. I fucked her. Check. Now I can not think about it for a while. Also, unlike these World Star Hip Hop fights, the fucking Russians know how to break it up with a left occasionally. Black guys it’s just right right right right right.

  I want to fuck you. I don’t want to hit you or pretend to rape you or shit on you or put an ice cube in your ass or dress you up as a pony or have you peg me. I want to fuck you. If you need an explanation of the mechanics I can direct you to many fine video clips.

  The one thing I do want is for you to be sweaty from the airplane. I want the musk of your ovulating 25 year old cunt to have stewed and marinated on the long flight. I want your clothes to smell like Southwest Airlines recirculated air and the crumbs from the honey mustard pretzel and Doritos mix, now nut free. I want your mouth to be stale and I want you to be wearing shitty shoes and shitty jeans and I’m still gonna throw you on the floor and pull them off; give myself rug burn kneeling over you and slipping it in you too fast and laughing you off when you ask me to put a condom on. I want to nut in you without asking you if you’re on birth control but I don’t have the balls. I want to fuck you as soon as you’re off the plane and we’re in a room alone and then I’ll cum and realize I don’t know you and you are staying in my home for several days and what if you snore. I want you to spend money to get on a plane and come see me because you’re hot in your facebook photos and you were born when I was in junior high and how am I gonna say no. Then I want to fuck you for a minute and a half and sheepishly blow about 20 high pressure ropes of jizz on your stomach and think: now what.

  Coffee Shop Diary: A Pretty Girl

  Damn, this girl is really pretty. Which means she’s dating some guy in a band. Some guy with a job. Some guy with a smaller nose. A bigger dick. Some guy who is more confident. Some guy who would go talk to her at a party. Or perhaps this selfsame coffee shop. She sits there reading wishing a not bad looking guy would talk to her and one day one of them did and now he’s dating her. Listening to her discuss her boring schoolbooks, yes, but also fucking her. White skin black hair. Like she ought to be in a Frazetta painting wrapped around some barbarian’s thighs as he lofts a claymore over a dragon’s corpse, its eyes still glowing. Her fingers digging into the meat of your back. She notices the mass you have added to your rear deltoids. A tough muscle to isolate but you took care to hit it hard and now she notices. Her sweaty pussy on a hot day. She’s maybe 24. Young enough to have that glow, but an adult. Someone has her. Not you. You should have bought an amp and got in a band. Whatever. Her shoes are stupid.

  Unemployment Diary: Want Ads

  Are you PASSIONATE about finance? Rock star Executive Assistant needed for C-level exec at up-and-coming boutique firm. Ideal candidate is a detail-oriented, motivated self-starter. Thick skin and ability to handle tricky personalities a must. Salary standard with opportunity for growth. Bachelors degree, five years industry experience required.

  They’re all like this. Because these people are all liars. In order for them to pay you they demand that you be a liar too. Are you passionate about finance? Of course not. No one is. No one is even passionate about money; they go after money because they have no passion and don’t know what else to do with their lives. But we want you to be motivated by passion, not a paycheck. Because we don’t want to pay you.

  Rock star needed. Rock star. A rock star is a person who stays up freebasing until sunrise, whose herpes laden tattooed cock is never outside of some seventeen year old runaway. A rock star is a person who barely works forty minutes a day and then passes out in his own waste.
Your job description is for a quiet drone who punches in early and meekly plugs numbers you dictate into an Excel spreadhseet. This is the opposite of a rock star. But “rock star” just means “something cool that everyone wants to be.” It means “exceptional.” We want an exceptional rock star to go above and beyond to find the best price on toner cartridges, to know that they’ll last little longer even when the printer tells you they’re empty, if you give them a vigorous shake. We could save point zero zero zero one per cent of the office supply budget this way. We want a passionate committed detail oriented motivated self starter who is a total rock star about getting the building manager to fix our toilet before the other five people with plumbing problems get their issues handled; who can outmaneuver the rock stars from that commercial real estate office on the sixth floor. We want a rock star who, when some miscreant has blocked the boss’ parking space, manages to get the offender towed and the boss’ car parked in his space and the seat readjusted to the boss’ height and lumbar curvature and neck angle and the keys back on the boss’ desk and when the boss gets out of his meeting it’s like the whole thing never happened, and not asking for credit for this, it’s just assumed. Just like Jimi Hendrix would have done.

  Motivated self-starter. We fired the last passionate rock star without notice so there is no one to train you; we expect you to just know. Detail-oriented. We cannot manage you in other words, we whose job title is “manager.” I can’t be out there being passionately driven to develop new business for Wong & Goldblum Financials LLC if I’m here holding your hand through how to file my expense reports. I need a detail oriented motivated self starting rock star where you just plug it in and it works.

  Opportunity for growth. You could be sitting where I’m sitting some day. Next year it could be you regarding some nervous schlump’s resume with your lizardlike eyes, tapping a pen on a pressboard desk like a fucking woodpecker on meth thinking how soon can I get out of this interview. Why does HR keep sending me these shitbirds when I asked for a chick. Sweating in a bad suit, bad shoes, eyes rubbed raw glaring at people’s stupid emails until you can’t read street signs anymore; you can’t focus on anything more than three feet away. Wondering if they monitor your internet; you’ve been reading hooker reviews, wondering if you can afford an appropriate tip for “Anastasia” who has received three point eight stars collectively and has “the cutest accent” according to whoremaster69. Bar girls are impossible, why not cut to the chase. Could be you, a rock star Account Executive flattering and simpering and Always Being Closing and terrified you’re not bringing in enough dollars, hoping they give you the option of a pay cut so you can keep the job, have somewhere to go ten hours out of the day; anywhere but your smelly beige apartment with a granite countertop that they didn’t tell you means you can’t put any fucking food on it. It’s a fucking rock, for Christ’s sake, but if you cut a grapefruit on it the imprint will be seared into the stone forever and they’re gonna take it out of your deposit. How then are the mountains not all worn down to dust by falling fruit. I paid extra for that fucking thing. How are you gonna make payments on your BMW that you dreamed about until you got one and noticed that everyone else has the exact same fucking car. Should have got a Prius, chicks would think I give a fuck about the Earth.

  Are you PASSIONATE about finance? I can’t even conceive of the malformed subhuman who honestly says “yes.” If you are passionate about finance, about sales, about commercial real estate, about branding, co-branding, maximizing awareness in the branded space, about targeted apps, social media outreach, office solutions, personal finance solutions, human resources solutions, network marketing solutions, synergistic growth opportunities… you need to find a healthier passion, like molesting kids.

  Anyway. Here’s hoping this place calls me back.

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

  The fucksleeve came in the mail on a Tuesday. Just like a real woman it took forever to come, he thought. There’s a joke you’ll never be able to tell in public.

  As promised it was in discreet packaging. A surprisingly small box. Within this was a plastic egg that contained the fucksleeve. While small, it could be stretched, per the pamphlet, “to accommodate any size penis.” There were also hints on how to maximize sensation on the glans and frenulum; some artist had been paid to draw a hand in various positions stretching this piece of silicon over a healthy-sized member. It’s a living. Inside the thing’s orifice was a single use packet of lube, but he opted for Curel Intensive Care instead. Save the special stuff for a rainy day.

  I’ll spare you the details. It was the first one he’d ever used and he came almost instantly, grudgingly pulling the device off of him and spraying into the sink to avoid a long cleaning process. Just like a real woman it makes you nut too fast, he thought. Just like a real woman it makes you pull out.

  He’d bought the cheapest one that got good reviews. Miserly. He hadn’t read the fine print, that it was so cheap and came with a packet of lube because it was intended for a single use. At the bottom of the directions pamphlet were the words “After pleasuring, discard. Try more of our 8 different textures.” After about the fifth time it began to get grippy and loose, and no longer excited him. He had one last hurrah, with the single use dedicated lube packet, which made his penis smell like almonds. He emptied his seed in it, imagined he was launching an unwanted baby into fertile young loins. He then threw it out with the trash on top of some coffee grounds.

  **********

  A few weeks later he was making chicken. He often cooked for dates, but this was a special dish he only made alone. A Vons Family Pak of 99 cents per pound chicken parts baked in Kraft barbecue sauce. His mother had always made it on his birthday, and now he would make it after a rough day at work. He would have been embarrassed if anyone saw. He liked people to think he was the type of person who seared locally caught fish with fresh rosemary. Then the doorbell rang. It was the Tenga® Easy Beat Egg™ Artificial Vagina, “Silky.”

  She was crying. I’m sorry, she said. I just had a really bad date, I was in the neighborhood. I had to get away from him. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have called. But can I come in?

  Sure, he said. He didn’t know what else to say. He’d been drinking wine. He was not prepared for his artificial vagina to come to life and stop by for dinner.

  Thank you. It was raining outside; she was shivering a little. What are you making? It smells wonderful.

  Oh, just some, uh… just some stupid shit. Something my mom used to make.

  It smells wonderful.

  Thanks. It’s not really, it’s uh… not fancy.

  Can I have some?

  He blanched for a second. He had never cooked for her, obviously. Only fucked her and rinsed her off and put her back in a drawer. He would never have even considered cooking this chicken for a guest, certainly not a date. But, so what if she thought it was stupid. Who stops by someone’s house unannounced. A guy who fucked you five times and threw you out. Who cared what she thought.

  He served her. Then himself. She cut off a bite and blew on it. Tasted it.

  Omigod… it’s soooo good!

  Haha. Really?

  It’s the best chicken I’ve ever had.

  It’s just some stupid comfort food, my mom used to make it for my birthday.

  Well your mother was wonderful.

  They ate and listened to the rain. She finished her plate and asked for more. Girls never did that.

  Listen, she said, I know this is imposing, but can I stay here tonight? I have a movie in my bag. I’ll stay out of your hair. I took the bus to my date and it’s raining and I don’t want to be alone.

  It was out of nowhere but he didn’t know how to say no. The movie was Andrei Rublev by Tarkovsky, an epic about medieval Russia. There were sweeping battles and ancient vistas and they threw a horse down a flight of stairs. It was a masterpiece. He had never talked to her about movies, obviously. He hadn’t kn
own she had such wonderful taste. They fell asleep on the couch together, her back warming his chest while the rain hissed in the leaves. In the morning she was gone.

  **********

  A week later she called him. He didn’t recognize the number but picked up anyway. Hi, she said. I don’t want to be weird but I’m going to the desert this weekend and wanted to see if you’d come with me. I rented a room at this place where there’s a natural hot spring.

  He had been living in Los Angeles for eight years and had never seen the desert. Work had wrecked him; it was Friday night. She might be crazy but why not.

  In the morning they drove out to Desert Hot Springs in her convertible. He watched the hills roll by, the plants and rocks change, and was excited. New birds circled the highway. New flowers grew in the ditch. He made her pull over so he could take a picture with a cactus.

  She had a hotel room in a little place that had hot mineral water, catered to German tourists. They sat in the giant tub, naked, as dusk fell over the desert and a roadrunner came up to drink from the pool. Crickets sounded and a coyote howled. A wind blew in from the mountains and shook a wall of bamboo behind them. He was the happiest he’d ever been in his life.

  They stayed together for a year. He did not remove his OKCupid profile, and he did not list himself as being “in a relationship” with his former artificial vagina on facebook. He did not introduce her to his friends. But she came over three nights a week, or during the day when her air conditioning broke, and they laid around watching movies and drinking wine and talking. They camped in the mountains, cataloging the national forest’s twenty four different kinds of rodents. They didn’t fuck anymore. He cared about her too much. You have to want to hurt somebody to fuck them. They tried a few times and he would look in her eyes and it would make him laugh.