The Pussy Page 6

  When you ran away from me I called you and called you. Of course, your phone wasn’t working. I texted you that if you didn’t answer we would never speak again. When I got home I unfriended you on Facebook. Then I went to block you on Twitter. But I saw that I had exactly 400 followers and didn’t want to fuck with the number. Such is my commitment to principle.

  **********

  That morning you had made me a nice breakfast. A perfect plate of eggs and an English muffin with jam you made yourself. The day before that we’d taken the kids to a barbecue at someone’s grandmother’s house in Sherman Oaks. Tasteful home artfully decorated with Chinoiserie; people talking about their families and jobs. Kids playing Marco Polo in the pool. It was some Norman Rockwell shit and it felt good and safe. Like we were grownups.

  But there was that thing hanging over us. It wasn’t going to be a weekend until we got drunk, until we got high, until we fucked somebody new and dirty, until we fought and maybe beat each other up and made strangers scared of us and did shit that might make us die. Something that would make a story.

  Even so you didn’t want to come out. Pool parties make you feel fat, for one thing, and for another you have a job and a family and you need to hold your shit together now. But I have these speed pills, I said. We’ll have a good time. Come on honey– how bad could it be.

  Anyway.

  There Is No God, But

  we still have the mountains and the hummingbirds. Or a good drink and a good fuck. Even a good shit and a good jerk. Try as you might, you cannot escape small pleasures. The flowers please you in spite of yourself, as you walk down the street muttering. Despairing over no text message from some girl you’d get tired of if she texted you back. Worrying about work. The clouds look painterly at sunset every god damn day and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. Even if you shut the blinds the magic hour light leaks through. A baby smiles at you in the checkout line. Sees something in your eyes. It was not lost.

  Sunday in the Park

  Out at the duck pond. Watching girls walk by. Many pretty young women with big breasts. Slutty teenage Mexican skater broads, like Hernandez brothers cartoons. Nice hot day; they strip down.

  Girl kneeling in the grass, her ass sticking out. Tight olive drab shorts. A robust ass for an Asian woman. She looks like Gertrude. Maybe it’s her. She has a Skrillex haircut now, huh. I want to eat her out. Work my tongue all over her nice sweaty snatch. Now she’s leaving. She can detect my thoughts.

  Sweaty thick Mexican running in a pink singlet with her ipod strapped to her arm. Her head shakes as she runs. Thick meaty ass. Weird little cone titties. I want to pin her down and rabbit fuck her like in a Japanese porno.

  40 year old Thai woman walking with her toothless mother and her son. Mail order bride, was advertised as 23. Got some schlump locked in and then shipped her mother over. I want her to squat over me and clamp her pussy, use Southeast Asian hooker cunt tricks as I cuckold her pasty engineer breadwinner by blasting on her last viable egg.

  A couple. Another thick Asian woman. Long braids. Black guy. Pushing a baby stroller. I want to force her head down on my cock with those braids as handlebars. Make her kiss her man with my jizz on her mouth.

  Half white half Asian who looks 19, dressed like the squarest sophomore at Reed College. I have to crane my head around to look at her. She sees me. Yes, I am looking at you. I am picturing wrestling with your tight jeans. Struggling to get them around that bone in your ankles, finally getting just one leg off and holding the other foot up and climbing on top of you and pushing your panties to the side and plunging deep into your hot wet salty cunt. Thanks for smiling back. She is quite slim. Very well built. Hybrid vigor.

  The small of the girl’s back in front of me. She has a face like Admiral Akbar but the small of her back has beautiful perfect dimples, visible as her tank top rides up. Try to see the good in people. Too tight daisy dukes choking just a little bit into soft back fat. Smooth legs. Long hair, that chestnut hair, I want to grab a fist full of it. Push her on her belly and open up her ass cheeks and grind on her clit upside down till she’s wet and tease into her pussy. Admiral Akbar face pushed into a convenient pillow. Her boyfriend looks like a dork. Good, I’m her type.

  Punk girl, big, tall, with tree trunk legs like an R. Crumb drawing. Short black skirt, periwinkle streak in her hair. Taking a picture of the pond. She’s built funny, like a pear, but the wind teases her skirt a little; I want to lift it up and sniff around her ass crack to make sure it’s clean. She’s turning around now. Pretty young face, dark lipstick. Exposed midriff. She is studying her phone. Waiting for a text that will never arrive. Maybe if you were built better. He doesn’t appreciate you but I will. Put those huge legs right around my neck and plunge your fat ass full of babies. Smell your filthy punk pussy on my couch cushions for days. Tell daddy you’re a fat cunt, baby. How about it.

  Nerdy Jim Henson looking guy with his fatassed Chinese girlfriend . They look happy together. Similar tastes in dress. I’m glad for them, that they found each other. Young love. I want to stick my face under her red dress and tongue down her musky cunt and asshole. They are walking with an ethnic Lesbian couple. I want them too. Answer their ad off craigslist for a sperm donor. The “boy” lesbian eats out the cute one for a good long time. Gets her all nice and slippery for me. Right on the edge of cumming. That way when I stick in my meatpipe and blast her full of goo she’s contracting my sperm up into her uterus. The partner supportively holds her hand. Looks in here eyes when I nut. Thank you baby for making this sacrifice. But the hot one loves it.

  Some kind of school athletic club. Teenage girl in tights. They are strangling her very pronounced cameltoe. She has a skinny little cunt. Probably flappy. Great. I want to split it open Like a summer camp baloney sandwich and lick off all the mustard. Bend her over and watch her lanky ass cheeks slap together as I whack them hard with an open palm. She is probably fifteen.

  Can’t arrest a man for dreaming.

  Girl in the Window

  Woman in the next building opened her blinds this morning. T-shirt and underwear. I was out smoking. She looked out at the morning sun kissing the trees. Surveyed the world for a moment. I was in the parking lot shooting lasers into her crotch. Scanning the slit of her skinny cunt like the Terminator, for later use. She looked down and saw my Kubrick stare. Neglected cigarette dangling. Recoiled in horror.

  This is the second window shot I’ve got in a week. Another girl, same building, left her blinds open while lounging in a black bra on the couch. Her tits were…. there is no word for them. I saw the face of God. She saw me looking. There was a second of direct eye contact. I kept looking. I couldn’t not. Finally pried myself away, went back inside. Then I went out again. I’d remembered there was a recycling bin to be brought in. Thank you Lord for this luck. They had shut the blinds. “They” because they’re a couple; the guy was with her now. They shut the blinds but their dog has chewed off half the slats. Big gaps of visible space. They were laying on the couch entwined. The girl and her nice boobs facing outward. I looked again. They didn’t see me. Eyes on the TV. I looked and looked.

  Nice people. I don’t think they’d get mad. And if they did, fuck ’em. If you are naked in a window I’m going to look. I’m not going to pull out opera glasses, set up a pup tent and camp out. But I am going to look a beat too long. I am not going to nervously look at the ground after, admitting transgression. There’s an art to leering at women, they say. Not getting caught. Well I don’t give a shit if I get caught.

  I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. But yes, I’m looking at your tits. Long enough that you will know. I’m looking at your ass, your crotch, straight into your pussy if it’s out. Sorry. But I’m not going to stop. Seeing that half second of panty-clad cooch, knowing it’s all musky and hot in the dawn– this is a million times more erotic than anything, in an age when every conceivable kind of porn is out there easy and free.

  I think you are beau
tiful. I am not looking at it to gross you out, or scare you. I don’t want to hurt you. Well, OK– I kind of want to break in, hold my hand over your mouth and bend you over your kitchen counter and fuck you hard until I fill you with my seed while you cry and try to bite through my palm. Which is technically hurting you. But I don’t– I don’t really want that. That’s just some dark reptilian recess of my mind. What I actually want is to look at you long enough to memorize what the outline of your twat looks like. Savor the image when I’m masturbating. That’s all. You need that extra beat because otherwise your mind loses images while you beat off. God made us broken, in other words. So: sorry, but, I need to stare. So my dick’s testimony will be admissible in court.

  Let’s not make a big deal out of it. I’ll see you on the street. We nod, friendly, like it never happened. Maybe I hold eye contact a second too long. Then you beckon me over and “present” to me like a baboon and we rut like filthy monkeys in the neighbor’s rosemary patc– no! Control yourself, man. We’re in a god damn civilization here.

  Half naked in the window. Daisy dukes on the street with the fat-mottled bottom of your ass hanging out. Yoga pants pressing your cuntflaps into sharp relief. Loose low cut tops that let slip a half inch of nipple when you lean over to hand me my change, open toed shoes with toenail polish chipped like a little girl after a day at the beach… you drive me crazy, you god damned women. But please, please:

  Never stop.

  Crimes and Misdemeanors

  There are ants in the bathroom sink. I keep jerking off into it. Trying to hold on to the images from porn. Trying not to get distracted by the nightmare Dali tableau of the ants, swarms and swarms of them picking at the crust of my toothpaste. When I nut the first drop makes them scatter, furiously. Then I wash my jizz down the drain and with it their colony. They quickly repopulate.

  It’s too fucking hot and I’m hung over as shit and my bike got stolen. I need to call my parents. Tell my mom I’m going to Mexico City. I’ve been holding it back because I don’t want her to freak out. She’ll think I’m gonna get my head cut off, shipped back to her in a cooler. No, it’s fine, I’ll say. I was just in Tijuana, it’s not like you read about. What were you doing there? Uh…

  Every half an hour I pull up craigslist and search for my bike. I found one yesterday, the same model. I called the guy; his name was Franco. He’s in a neighborhood controlled by gangs that are friendly with the White Fences of East Hollywood. I believe it is the White Fences who stole my bike. The photo was identical. He was having a yard sale, he said. Come on over and check it out. I was ready to go Rambo. This is my fucking bike. Give it back and I won’t call the cops.

  I told El Chuco my plan. Are you out of your fucking mind, he said. You’ll get stomped. If you see the bike, get a picture of the serial number and call the cops. I didn’t know what I was gonna do but I drove out there. Little old guy sitting in a lawn chair. Are you Franco? I asked. I was rehearsing: that’s my fucking bike motherfucker, give it back or I’ll come back here with a shotgun. No, came a voice from behind me. I’m Franco. Danny Trejo’s head on Lou Ferrigno’s body. Tattoos all over his neck.

  It was not the same bike. Different color pinstripes. This one belonged to his son who had gone off to college. I was relieved. Hot day; Franco gave me a beer. Bunch of nice shit at his yard sale. Quality furniture and art. A tasteful home.

  It was stolen from a girl’s house. An OKCupid first date. Nice looking girl. Cute ass, big titties. Apartment full of beautiful things. Slutty girls love design. I’d biked over drunk. She had another girl with her, a neighbor. I thought I’d walked in to the jaws of a 3 way. But the neighbor was just the murder patrol. Once I was deemed safe she left. We got drunk, more dunk. We fucked. I came in two seconds. Slept next to her naked. I woke up at 3AM and I was trying to rape her. Wrists pinned over her head, legs open. Trying to get the tip in raw when she’d been adamant about condoms. She laughed it off. They always do. When it got light I redeemed myself with powerful and enduring morning wood. She made fresh juice with kale. I walked out triumphant. The day after new pussy is Christmas morning.

  But the fucking bike was gone.

  I loved that bike. I dream about it now. Speeding down the hills with trees flashing by. When I had it the tires were always going flat. I live at the top of a fucking mountain and I fucked up my knees and hips grinding back home from work. But still. I loved that bike. The White Fences were the big gang on her block, the girl told me. They steal a lot of bikes. Kidnap people’s dogs for ransom. I called the cops. Yeah, it could have been the Whites, the guy said. Could have been the Whites that stole your bike. I pictured the other cops behind him listening, without context. Thinking: what the fuck?

  After the yard sale I went into Hollywood to file a police report. So I can call them when I find it in a pawn shop. Which I fucking won’t, it’s gone. But I keep looking. Like a mother who lost her child. I can’t stop thinking about it. My only comfort is to search uselessly. Driving the streets around the girl’s house slow, eyefucking everyone. Someone’s gonna beat my ass.

  There was a girl in front of me in line at the police station. She had the best ass I’ve ever seen. Little daisy dukes, prefect orbs of meat hanging out the bottom. She was a victim of ATM fraud, she was saying. The cop looked like an owl. He kept explaining that she needed to call the bank. Just, call Wells Fargo. Just tell them what you told me. Say it in the same tone. I believe you. If you say it emphatically like that, the way you’re saying it now, the bank will too. She’d stop. Tell the story again. My friend pulled me out of the house and she was alone in my room and my information is in the top drawer there. It was her. I don’t know her name, just her nickname. Officer Owl was frustrated with her. Ma’am, I can’t arrest a person just because she was in your house. To his right was Officer Sanchez, talking on the phone. I kept trying to make eye contact with Sanchez. To say: is that not the best ass you have ever seen? His eyes never left his computer. Another cop came in . Six foot eight black guy. Here would be an ally. I shot him the eyes. Is this not, my countenance asked, the best ass you have ever seen? Hightower didn’t give a shit either. What do these cops see to ignore an ass like that.

  There was a girl drinking her coffee on the stoop, when I came out to find it gone. She was gorgeous. Perfect. I’m so sorry, she said. If I see it, I’ll get in touch. Who were you staying with? I uh… shit. Apartment five? I didn’t know her name. I only know her internet name, I said. She laughed. I had to explain to my host that I had outed her. Your neighbor thinks you’re a whore now. Well shit, she said. Talk about a whore, you oughta see the men she has over. I made a mental note.

  The bike is an all matte black Electra beach cruiser with subtle olive drab stripes on the sides, if you ever see one. Serial number EAC3A00464. If you find it I will give you a cash reward. If you see it on the street, if you see her, being abused by these miscreants, shoot me an email. It was stolen from North Kingsley Drive, near Santa Monica Boulevard. Locked up in a gated yard.

  It’s just a piece of metal but it meant something to me. My buddy bought it as a gift. Old friend from up north, where I used to work part time and ride my beach cruiser around all day with my shirt off. Whales breaching in the bay beside me. It meant something. Reminded me of days when I was free. Now some cholo is bunny hopping her off a high curb, laughing at the jerkoff he got one over on. The streets are full of thugs. You will lose everything that isn’t nailed down. God damn Road Warrior universe out there with these dirtbags, their pregnant stretch pants sharpie eyebrow girlfriends, their un-neutered pit bulls chained to rusted out washing machines, their back yards full of stolen goods and roosters. Or who knows. I have no idea who took it. I shouldn’t stereotype. But still.

  Fucking Whites, man.

  Hangover Diary: Rocktober

  Fuck. God damn man. Still hung over. 2 days later. I did cocaine and took valiums and drank a fifth of brandy. OK. It will be fine. Tomorrow you will feel better. Tomorrow. Go to
work. Have a productive day. It’s cold, feels like winter, it’s sixty eight motherfucking degrees. Jesus Christ man, you have to stop getting drunk, doing hard drugs. You have to stop this shit. Eat a fucking salad and perform vigorous compound exercises. Read quality literature, watch birds in the forest. Clean your motherfucking act up and be a functioning human being. This is what happens. This is why people have to have kids. To have something to do all fucking day. Keep the thing from squirting roach spray in its gullet. Run around making sure he doesn’t jam his finger in the outlet. Or your wife does that, I guess. You go to work. Sit on a train in a suit and a stupid hat and read the financial papers. Martini at the end of the day, golf on weekends. Anyone under 40, your concept of normal life is from TV. A dead dream.

  The other guy stole the second gram. I was pissed at the time. Now I think: good. I hope it’s really gone. Never again with that shit. From now on, fruits and vegetables. A nice beef broth. Put me in one of those FDR wheelchairs with the plaid blanket and park me in front of an old timey radio. Jesus Christ. I am too old for this. I’m too old for drugs, liquor and pussy. But what else is there. Jesus. Gardening, I don’t know.

  Hold it together. Get in the car. Some nice NPR playing. It’s the stupid mid morning show they have, with “A. Martinez” or “Kye Risdall” or whoeverthefuck, they all sound the same. Milquetoast yuppies from Brown University. Their stupid bullshit show about business and finance. The Dow is up seventeen points, on news that congress is close to reaching a deal. Seventeen points out of fifteen fucking thousand. What use is this to anybody. “It Don’t Mean a Thing if it Ain’t Got That Swing” plays saucily on the piano, since the NASDAQ is down. News of a disappointing IPO from a company that helps you send dick pics. Didn’t find enough suckers. Money you don’t have is being made by people you don’t give a shit about. Switch to music.