In conclusion: five stars.
Coffee Shop Diary: The Smell of My Wang
I can’t stop fucking looking at this woman and I can’t stop being aware of what a fucking dork I must look like, resting my face awkwardly in my fingers. It is extremely uncomfortable but I can’t stop doing it. Because she’ll know I stopped doing it because I was afraid she would think I’m a dork. I can’t make eye contact but I can’t look away so instead I give her this squinty side-eye. And she knows, she knows, that I am supremely unworthy to ejaculate into her fertile young womb.
If I had a huge wang it wouldn’t be like this. I would just shoot her a glance that implied “hey, I have a huge wang.” I know I’m a jittery weirdo in a coffee shop at noon on a weekday but my member is unusually thick and lengthy. Therefore, nothing else matters. She could smell it on me. The smell of my wang. Her mind would try to resist but her loins would be inflamed by some pheromone and she would have to give me doe eyes. She would be forced to gesture that I follow her into the bathroom where she would “present” to me, bending over against the cardboard ass gasket dispenser upon which somebody has sharpied “Free Cowboy Hats.” Her cooch would pucker wetly in anticipation and I would slowly drive my impossibly thick fleshy snake into her hot meat tunnel and fill her with thick spurts of my manly seed. She would convulse, satisfied that I had given her a son who would also have a huge wang. We would shake hands, businesslike, and part company. Instead I look for something in my tea.
This Is All Your Fault Megan
I’m trying to masturbate to the redhead with the big titties from the Standard but the problem is, Julianne Moore has a movie coming out. So they interviewed her on NPR and I heard it and got her face stuck in my head. I get about three seconds of the redhead from the party before it becomes Julianne Moore’s pointy fucking Count Chocula face. Now you are cursed too. Go try to jerk off to a redhead and try not to think of Julianne Moore.
The redhead with the big titties wasn’t opening the door in room 413 and the party was winding down, so I admitted defeat and walked over to skid row to buy black tar heroin. The first guy I talked to just took my money and disappeared. He had handed me a garbage bag full of L.A. Kings T shirts as collateral, which I now own. Email me if you are extra large.
Eventually I found an old hooker who scored for me in exchange for two half pints of Kamchatka vodka from the convenience store. Got one for myself too. It’s actually not bad. I offered to get her high but she said no, I’m just a alcoholic.
You stupid, she said, comin around here with all that money. You a stupid motherfucker. Yeah, I’ve been briefed. I was wearing my tiny American Apparel swim trunks and one of those country western shirts with snaps. Black loafers. I was carrying a briefcase with my laptop in it. All around me were huge menacing black people. A man jumped off a kid’s Huffy bicycle to punch another man in the face. The origin of the dispute was unclear. No one paid attention. Cops would circle occasionally and they should have arrested me; there is no reason for me to be on that block except to buy black tar heroin.
This is your fault, Megan, with the red hair and big titties. Your cute dress over a bikini. If you had fucked me I could have let all my pent up energy out. I was drinking all day by a pool watching beautiful young pieces of ass saunter around in wispy wet bathing suits, grinding on girls on the dance floor with my half hard penis crammed in their ass cracks. I was wound up and it had to go somewhere; it was either gonna be pussy or hard drugs. If you had had unprotected sex with me on our first meeting like you should have, I’d have retired home quietly to a glass of chardonnay and a good book.
I can pinpoint the moment where I lost you. You were complaining to a bunch of dudes about how a guy who looked like Lenny Kravitz said he wanted to impregnate you. You started cuddling up to me and said you would rather have my baby. I went to get another drink, and saw Lenny. He actually looked more like a retarded black Robert Pattinson so I went back to tell you this. I should have stayed away. I had been playing it perfectly. Bumping into you around the party and saying a couple witty things and then taking off, leaving you wanting more. I lost it when I went back to make a lame joke about an old topic. You can never fuck up with women, not once. Meanwhile a gay guy invited me back to his room; I’m about 80 per cent certain I’ve seen him in black and white on a billboard with his shirt off. Maybe even Abercrombie and Fitch. So, I’m attractive apparently. Doesn’t matter. One lame joke and you’re done.
I have your number. Maybe I’ll call you. Take you out for a drink. I want to see your pink mouth around my cock and your bright red hair cascading over my hipbones.
The walk home was too long so I stopped to smoke my first balloon with a homeless guy, using foil from a discarded Philly cheese steak. Who else does this, I thought. Finds a down on his luck junkie and gives him free heroin. Dude better name his first child after me. I don’t remember feeling too high but it was three miles to get back in dress shoes and I couldn’t feel my feet hit the sidewalk. When I got home I called for the cat, I reached out to pick him up and I fell over into my neighbor’s rosemary patch. I fell pretty hard and it didn’t hurt. Now I smell like rosemary.
I got inside and smoked the second balloon and nodded off listening to Patrice O’Neal.
Shit Jobs: Telemarketing
You’re sitting there in a tiny cubicle in a moldy beige room with acoustical tile and you are separated from a bear sized homeless man with a loud booming voice by what is basically urinal divider. You have a headset on, an old one with one foam earphone and a curly wire going into a battered phone. You are listening to a cavernous hiss. And then it beeps and your back tenses and it’s showtime.
“….Hello? HELLO!!???!!!”
The person on the other end of the line has been listening to silence and clicks for five seconds. They are tipped off to what you are. Because the autodialer waits for what it thinks is a human voice to connect you. The person is already pissed off. You have a dumb terminal in front of you. It’s the 21st century but you have a monitor with green block letters on black from the 70’s with what is putatively the person’s name and address, but a lot of times it’s empty or some guy who was about to get fired had put in “Harry Stiffey, 69 Cumshot Drive.”
“HELLO??!???” WHO IS THIS??!!??”
“Good evening sir, is this Mr. Sti– uh, are you the head of the household?”
“WHAT ARE YOU SELLING?”
“I’m not, I’m not selling anything sir, this is Cornelius calling on behalf of the Firefighter Charitable Organization, we’re asking for your support in helping the Fi-”
“PUT ME ON YOUR ‘DO NOT CALL’ LIST AND NEVER EVER CONTACT ME AGAIN” (slam.)
And then the hiss again. Select “DNC” on your dumb terminal. “Do Not Call.” As mandated by law we will mail a mimeograph of our “Do Not Call” Policy to what we think is his address and take him out of the system. Wait for the next beep. If you get five human beings in a row you’re doing all right. The dialer waits until it thinks it hears a person but a lot of the time it’ll give you that three tone disconnect sound ten times in a row. DOO DOO DEEEEHHHH and you have your headset turned all the way up because the fucking old ladies all gargle softly around fifty years worth of Pall Malls and they’re impossible to hear except at top volume. This means the “we’re sorry, the number you’re calling has been disconnected” sound is like sticking your head in one of those horns that a lighthouse blows in the fog. Mark that one as a “Telco.”