The Pussy Read online

  The classic rock stations are playing a cut from the first Boston album, something by the Steve Miller Band, something by Styx. It is Rocktober. Every single person in every single car on the freeway would be a million times happier if you loaded up some AC/DC you dumb sacks of shit. On the AM dial it’s sports or Rush Limbaugh. Ladies and Gentleman, the LIBERALS in this country… this is what happens when you do NOT have a real, conservative opposition. The LIBERALS in this country, well… I wouldn’t go so far as to say they EAT white infants. I would catch a lot of flak for that, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t want to go so far as to say that the NEGROES want to cannibalize your grandmother and shit on the bones they’ve picked clean while playing jungle drums and sacrificing your baby to an idol of a giant welfare check, but… Barack Obama, you have to understand, he has a plan here folks. You can get in a lot of trouble for saying something like Barack Obama HATES this country, that he worships the European Socialist model. That he wants to turn this great nation, ladies and gentlemen, into DENMARK, where black folks are encouraged to SKULLFUCK little blonde haired girls with their… ladies and gentlemen, the sheer girth of the, uh, the adult male members of this population, is, wow.

  Back to NPR. Larry Mantle is having a roundtable with experts on Women in Tech. Why aren’t more women entering STEM fields, they ask. They have a point. There are more women talking about the lack of women in STEM fields than there are women in STEM fields. It is the sexist culture, they will conclude. Well no, I yell into my instrument console. Engineering is horrible. Coding is horrible. Math is horrible. Why aren’t more women hanging off a high steel beam shooting red hot rivets into a skyscraper frame — because it SUCKS to do that, I tell the windshield. Women are smart enough to avoid it. You think the Googleplex is all hipsters high fiving each other over ping pong– that building is a giant sweatshop of the unfuckable and it smells like unshowered fat people and farts. Women don’t want to work there. Me neither. Good for them. What then will they do in the coming knowledge economy, the panel contemplates. The same as the rest of us. Watch as the jobs are shipped to India. You want to talk about a sexist culture, by the way, go climb onto your husband’s burning corpse, I tell my glove box. A 22 year old tells an anecdote. A male manager didn’t like her code once. Mantle burbles sympathetically.

  Relax. Thank God the valiums put you out before you could stay up till 4am jerking off to horrendous sexual tableaux out of Bosch. Be grateful. It’s just a hangover. This empty feeling, vulnerable feeling. Despair and fear. It is a sickness. It will pass. Get out of the house and do something. Put on your adult dress up pants and look at a spreadsheet and call phone numbers and discuss industrial real estate transactions. Permits for spray booths. Truck height loading docks. Power needs; recent improvements to the sprinkler system. A man needs twenty thousand square feet of refrigeration for his citrus packing operation. Let’s find it for him. He is doing well in this world. He packs so much god damn citrus that his existing Great Pyramid sized citrus cooling facility is inadequate. He is a success. When the world goes apocalyptic you can camp over there and live off tangerines. Nice guy. Immigrant too. The American Dream lives on.

  Emily is moving in with some guy. She’ll be gone. Nikol got serious with some guy. She posts about him on facebook the way my aunt posts about abortion. The way a baby bird won’t shut the fuck up about wanting a worm. There is no one now. I will have to get on OKCupid and really try this time. You OKCupid girls are the worst of human schwag, you know. I hate having to talk to you. But you’re still better than what walks the streets.

  Jesus man– if they’re schwag, what the fuck are you. You’re sitting here shivering over a 1000 word screed about your coke hangover and your eyes look like a fucking horror movie. Get up man. Go outside. The day awaits.

  Tomorrow is Another Day

  Yesterday was gonna be the day I stopped drinking. But I got stuck in traffic. Tanker truck caught on fire on the 60 freeway. It was carrying liquid hydrogen. Hindenburg. All lanes closed in both directions.

  I don’t take the 60 freeway, but everyone who does jumped on my freeway of choice, the 10 East. It was my day to stop drinking. For the first hour I took it. Stuck with the plan. But I’d been driving all day. It got dark on the road. The radio just kept telling me about the horrible traffic conditions I was in, every channel. Defeatist messages. Folks, it’s gonna be bad out there for a while. As we’ve been reporting the 60 is closed. Of course you have your alternate routes, the 10 and the 210. But those are stacked up now too from downtown past Azusa. There’s a ripple effect going on here folks. The 605 and 710 are a sea of red. The 101 is stop and go through downtown past Hollywood. And the 5 is on fire, the commuters have begun torching their cars and eating passengers’ flesh. Trees blackened. No life left in the hills except one sinister looking cactus. Starved crows circling. If you’re an alcoholic, you’re gonna want to drink extra liquor tonight to power through the sensations you’re gonna be feeling for the next several hours. I am speaking directly to you, Delicious Tacos, the announcer said. You are an idiot for wanting to stop drinking. Why would you torture yourself further. Think of that first drink. The one that makes this all go away.

  The 110 is backed up to Oregon and surface streets are a Bosch hell of shattered metal, folks. Bones meat blood and sinew in the streets. Insurance salesmen desperate to get home in time for the game, ripping babies out of car seats and holding them by the feet and slamming their little faces into light poles in a spray of blood and gristle to hear the mothers scream. Riot troops with flamethrowers just broiling people alive in their minivans, it’s a real mess out there folks. Why would you stop drinking. A crack in the earth has opened at the interchange of the 10 East and the northbound 605 and Satan has emerged 20 stories tall in flame to rape commuters with an ever-spiraling tentacle cock covered in poisonous barbs and there’s an accident in the carpool lane that CHP is busy trying to clear but it’s going to be at least an hour. CHP spokesperson Rick Martinez is telling commuters out there to stay put folks. Stay where you are if you can, you do not want to be on the road tonight. Truckers passing you will leer from high windows with the ghoulish face of your father. The dead beckon you to hell from twisted reflections in his hubcaps. Giant spiky lugnuts swirling, you feel the flesh ripped off your face, tongue torn out twitching on the asphalt, shredded throat croaking, wordless agony… it’s a real mess out there folks. Better buy as much liquor as you can as soon as you get home folks, you do not want to be sober out there. Traffic brought to you by Mattress Masters. You spend one third of your life on your mattress, why wouldn’t you choose the best. Mattress Masters: sweet dreams.

  I masturbated in the car to make myself feel better. Struggled with my belt in a fast patch, grabbed the gym T shirt I’d left in the passenger seat. Draped it over my penis. Thought of a blowjob Gertrude gave me one hot afternoon on a coke hangover. Do you want me to suck your dick, she said. I miss you, lover. Remembered cumming without warning her. How could you, you ruin it. Grab her head and force her to take you deep and shoot down her throat while she tries to wiggle off. You had a good one, she said. Like 8 spurts. I lost it in a slow patch when a trucker was right next to me. He’s seen worse.

  That was good for 15 minutes. But by the time I got to the 5 interchange I knew I was going to the liquor store. 50 more minutes to get there. I bought a pint of Christian Brothers for $6.99. Maybe I can pace myself, I thought. It was gone in 20 minutes on an empty stomach. Barely felt it but woke up with a hangover. The only thing that’s gonna take the hangover away is another $6.99 pint of Christian Brothers. If you got a better idea I’d love to hear it.

  Seasonal Affective Disorder

  It’s the light that gets me. Dark at 4:30. I just want to drink and sleep. You try to go outside but it’s cold and all the girls walking around have big sweaters on. No more yoga pants. Why go outside if you won’t see a fully defined pubic mound, the mathematically perfect curve of an ass crack jiggling. What’s the point.<
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  Drink and sleep. Your hormones crash. Go to the gym and your strength has fallen off a cliff. Creaky joints. Every movement grates like bone on bone. I believe I tore my rotator cuff. This is another way of saying: my shoulder hurts. “Rotator cuff” is the only piece of shoulder anatomy I know the name of. Therefore I tore my rotator cuff. No heavy bench press, no heavy military. I now have the upper body of Barbie without the tits. It hurts when I hold the bar to dead lift. It hurts when I support the bar to squat. It hurts when I do a pullup.

  Keep hammering on it anyway. Low weight high reps. Just to the point where it hurts but my arm doesn’t rip off my torso, spray onlookers with arterial blood. What are you gonna do, not lift weights? God made me to be a flabby pussy. I skip two weeks, suddenly I’m built like a white garbage bag full of jelly with willow branches sticking out. I am genetically half a man, it’s only with vigilant struggle that I approach the threshold of fuckability.

  Cold and dark, cold and dark. I just want to eat a hearty stew of root vegetables and drink burgundy wine. Pass out to the TV. Mind you this is Los Angeles, cold is 60 degrees. But still. Something happens at the end of daylight savings time. The days are already shorter, shorter, the sunset starts at 3. The whole afternoon is weird cold queasy twilight. Then daylight savings ends. Lopping an hour off the light doesn’t seem like a big deal but it is, it’s like getting dropped out of bed into ice water, like throwing the emergency brake on the freeway. Every ancient gene that tells you to hole up with pelts and a fire kicks in all at once. White people are not meant to work in winter. Two hundred thousand years telling you if you go outside and do anything you’re going to die. No fighting it. You can only make it worse by trying.

  You can drink your way through it, eat your way through it, sleep your way through it. But the phone is still going off, buzzing, telling you you have to work. Talk to people. The rent is due. The bills. If you don’t fuck soon you’re gonna feel ugly. Have to get dates. Go on OKCupid, go out to bars… work work work. Every conversation is an annoyance, a distraction from what you really want: to crawl in a hole and die.

  The police helicopter comes at three in the morning. I am a nonviolent person. But I want a laser pointer. I want to get it in the pilot’s eye and have him flinch and lose the stick for one second. The bird goes down in fire, he burns alive, his children fatherless. Always at three in the morning. LAPD flies low, rattles the windows. Spindly spotlight fingers some cholo’s garage. Engine drone like a whole Stukka squadron, thump thump thump of the blades, the loudspeaker. “JOSE ECHEVARRIA, COME OUT OF THE HOUSE.” Excellent pronunciation, they roll the R’s and everything.

  I want a Stinger missile. Heat seeker made to get planes on takeoff and landing. Turned the war around for the Afghan mujaheddin, took out the Soviets’ Hind gunships. I want a Stinger. Hot whoosh of gas out the end of the tube as I launch. Recoilless. The missile streaks across the sky, spiraling as it homes in on the LAPD’s heat signature. The bird spins only a few times since the fuckers fly low enough to almost touch. Plunges half cocked into my neighbor’s courtyard where the barking dogs are also immolated. The other neighbor’s truck with the variable-rhythm alarm that goes off if a dandelion petal lands on its hood explodes magnificently in flame. LAPD pilot emerging from the wreckage with his flesh burned off like a ghoul before he staggers and dies. Jose Echevarria sprints into the night, parkouring over fences, knowing he got a gift from God. He will live to steal car stereos another day. And I can go back to fucking sleep.

  I am a nonviolent person. But I bought an axe for my Patrick Bateman Halloween costume. It sits on my air conditioner. I daydream about using it. Mexican kids come to steal my bike again but this time I’m ready. The porch light snaps on and the sliding door roars open fast and there I am swinging, laughing and taking limbs. The kid further from me with the bolt cutters panics as I dismember his buddy. He makes it over the porch rail but stumbles in the rhododendrons, I leap the rail and catch him. Big full body strokes that get him at the wrists and ankles. I daydream about the barking dogs; making meatballs full of poison, ground glass… find my hands pantomiming, forming the meat.

  Dark dreams, dark thoughts. Wintertime. Even out here with sunshine and flowers, you carry the cold with you. No way to fight it. Like the man said, don’t try. Suck it up and kill time dreaming of the axe. Wait till it’s over. Two thousand more hours to go.

  Underage Ass

  Went down the block to get a Patra Burger. The Echo Park Christmas parade was going on. Teen cheerleaders shimmying down Sunset. Mexican Christmas carols play out of Mustangs. Short skirts. Yoga pants. Fifteen years old, tops. Like all straight men, I am powerfully sexually attracted to underage girls. Far more than to women of legal age. If you aren’t, say so in the comments. I’ll know everything else you say is also a lie.

  It’s natural, but I feel like a miscreant. Three blocks to Patra Burger. Looking, trying not to look like I’m looking. Young girls shaking their asses in tiny skirts and little black underwear. Lifting one another up to give us all a panty shot. I strain to get an image I can remember. High school freshman’s sweaty taint up in the air with another girl’s hot palm jammed in it. Heaven. Clear skin, long shiny hair. Little budding tits. Firm little apple asses. The nineteen year olds taking veiny cock in porn look like crones in comparison. Any woman of legal age is already past her peak.

  This is why I can’t be a teacher. This, and I hate young people and have no urge to help society. But mostly because I’d fuck my students. How could you not. Maybe you’d hold back for a year, two, ten. But one day one of them comes on to you. Every cell in your body was crafted over millions of years for the sole purpose of ejaculating inside ovulating young teens. The smell of her armpits after field hockey practice makes you a beast. You’d crack. Then live in terror. She’s gonna talk. She’s gonna write about her crush in her Lisa Frank diary that her parents dig up. She’s gonna tell a friend who tells her therapist who tells the cops. Suddenly you’re in the chester tank. Sex offender for life. A child rapist. Never work again, live in real danger of being flayed alive by medieval peasant mobs. Neighborhood brutes beat you with tire irons. What if it was my daughter, they say, but really– they’re jealous. You took that sweet pussy they can never have.

  One of my art teachers tried to fuck me when I was fifteen. A woman. Not bad looking for forty. But I’m almost forty now, I still can’t fuck forty year olds. It was a boarding school. She had an apartment on campus. Her kids went there too and I knew them. I had a cold. She came up to me at night, in a room under the auditorium where they stored theatre props.

  You feeling OK, she asked. Under the weather, I told her. Well, she said, if you want to feel better: come to my place and see me. I think you know what I mean. And she gave me the fuck me eyes.

  I think you know what I mean. At first I didn’t. She was first person to ever express sexual interest in me. I was an unfuckable dork and thought I would be for life. What did she mean? Seemed to be something forbidden. Smoking pot maybe? I don’t want to smoke pot with a teach– OHHH.

  Oh. I am a person that someone wants to fuck. For the first time ever. Holy shit. She is my art teacher. What do I say, I don’t– OK, yeah, I understand, I said. OK. Maybe some time. She turned around. Walked away. Swayed her ass.

  Why’d she want to fuck me, I thought. I ‘m ugly. White. Flabby. I have a cold, my nose is all red…. well, now I get it. Work out all you want and get a nice haircut but you’re never going to be as good to fuck as you were at fifteen. Smooth skin, a little downy hair, a dick that gets hard fast and gets hard again and again. Pert little balls, not the H.P. Lovecraft flesh sac hanging off my battered and impotent member now. She wanted to taste my sweet smelling young dick. She wanted my copious sperm load un-mutated by decades of liquor and cigarettes. In adolescence we are made perfect. From there we slowly rot and decline.

  There were handsomer boys. But she took a shot at me because I was lonely. Smart. If I hadn’t been such a crin
ging virginal pussy I’d have gone for it. If I’d been the way I am now. Do it for the story. For the infamy. Did you hear, Delicious Tacos fucked the art teacher. Rumors spread. Murmurs stirring something dark and unholy in the schoolgirls’ loins. Women only know to fuck men who fuck other women. I’d have been a legend.

  If I’d been the way I am now. But no. My career as Brolita began and ended in ten seconds. Good. It would have been weird. Scary. I’d be hiring aging hookers now. Telling them to act like an art teacher. Some parts of sex you’re born with. Other parts are clay; they get misshapen when you get molested.

  I remember that moment every time I think about underage girls. So: at least ten times per day. I’m glad it happened. If it hadn’t I might have gone for it when I had a shot. Might not have known I could fuck people up. But now I hang back. Look and look away. Head home, jerk the meatpipe. Thoughts of half-hairless Mexican baton girl snatch urge forth a furious load. Haven’t blown one like that since I was her age.

  My thanks to the Neighborhood Council.

  Drunk Thoughts on Global Capitalism

  There are three people who want a job for every job. This doesn’t count people who said “fuck it” and just left the workforce. People underemployed, part time, cleaning toilets with a lit degree.

  We don’t make anything physical in America now. The thing we do make, computer code– Mark Zuckerberg is lobbying congress so he can import labor for it. Otherwise he might have to train people. Those people might take that training and do something with it other than make him richer. Can’t have that.

  It will get worse. Practically, there will be no jobs soon. First you will be replaced by cheap overseas labor. Then cheap overseas labor will be replaced by robots.