Diary 3/27/11: Going to a party

March 31, 2011 § 2 Comments


This party.  Now I’m too tired to go to this fucking party.  Jesus.  Too fucking tired to do anything.  Woke up too early.  And spent the whole day alone and now I’m tired and weird.  And Leah isn’t going, and Stevie is going to flake.  And no one  I know is going to be there.  And I can’t get drunk. Because I’m going to have to drive.  And it’s going to be lame.  And google maps doesn’t work on my fucking computer.

But fuck it, I’m going to go.  Maybe I’ll get some ass. This chick (REDACTED).  Even though she used to date Chris, I think she wants to fuck me.  Or, I think she wants to fuck people. And I am a person.

But who knows. Maybe she’ll just fuck Chris.  I bet she’s the only chick there, and the rest of it is a bunch of loser UCLA dudes.  I’ll make a long drive, spent and exhausted, and I’ll get a DUI.  I’ll get raped in jail, and I’ll get AIDS.  I’ll spread AIDS to my cat (through a scratch or something; I don’t fuck my cat.  Much.), and my cat will die.  And my dick will get cut off somehow.  Somehow my going to this party will result in nuclear annihilation for the rest of the planet.  That’s how bad this party is going to suck.  At this party, some cold I’m carrying will combine with some other virus someone else is carrying—but not an STD, because I am definitely not getting laid at this party– some virus I’m carrying will combine with tetanus I get when someone at this party drives a nail through my dick and it will create a supervirus that will kill the whole planet.  But especially the people I love; they will die first, in front of me.  And my car will get stolen.

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In The First Place

March 31, 2011 § 2 Comments


I suppose I thought it was going to be like a movie. I hadn’t seen you in a few years, and the last time I’d been crashing at your place, a teen mother with a little baby, the weather had turned cold and we couldn’t chance sleeping in cars or on the streets. You’d had a girlfriend then, but you owned a house and you let us stay with you.

You were kind of old and gross, and I hated that you had a waterbed. But you were a sex therapist, and I always got off when we did it. I think you wanted to move us in to your house, too, but something about my relationships with every man in my life has always meant that the closer I get to a guy, the more I hate his guts. Or maybe that’s just the way it is for everyone, not just those of us who got boned by our dads, uncles, and babysitters. Maybe it’s just the human condition to despise the people who try to help us.

Anyway, I moved on to other couches and waterbeds, eventually moving to another state, and a few years later I was back at your doorstep, pregnant with the second child and about to get married. I hadn’t been planning to stop at your place, either, but I was driving past and I recognized your door, and I thought, “Fuck, man. This is going to be just like a movie.” « Read the rest of this entry »

You Said I Should Write About The Whoring

March 28, 2011 § 11 Comments


The worst part of that noise wasn’t the cockroaches with their shiny brown backs dancing on the lentils in the open pot on the stovetop. I mean, those were bad alright, especially since I got the feeling this pot bellied fuck would be returning to the rest of that meal once I’d left.

The worst part wasn’t having to swallow straight Hennesey from a dirty solo cup, the feeling of his hand on my knee and the urgency of wanting me to drink fast so we could get to it already. We knew the drink was a formality, and I considered not drinking it, but from the looks of the situation, I knew I’d rather have a drink in me than deal with whatever we were about to do completely sober.

The worst part wasn’t the bedroom with four sheetless mattresses, one in each corner, crusted laundry laying in piles, the prospect of other apartments that were just the same.

“Tell me about India,” I tried to be informal. I would pretend for a while that talking to them was my specialty, though my blow jobs were pretty outstanding, too.

The worst part wasn’t the broken English as he tried to tell me about Cochin, clearly agitated that I wasn’t just laying down, grabbing his cock, and putting it inside me right away. My conversation wasn’t needed. He tugged at my dress, pulling it straight up, exposing my cunt and my belly.

The worst part happened right then, with a clucking noise, this Indian chicken- his face went sour and he said “How old? How old?”

I’d been told by Max that I was supposed to say 23 in these situations, and I figured that this guy had called the agency asking for a 23 year old. I had my own opinions about the age thing, anyway, but I was quickly learning how much my opinions didn’t matter in this line of work. Nobody asks a whore for her opinion on the current political climate, or even which shoes go best with a suit.

Even after I lied about my age he repeated “No. How old?”, becoming increasingly angry and eventually sighing, caraway breath hot and stale in my face. Yeah, you’d think the worst part was the sex, the way his dick could barely get hard, and when it did, he covered my face and lamely thrust, fucking the way some people dance at a club, just slight motion of the legs and shoulders. But it wasn’t. The worst part was knowing that this turd, like so many other turds, had just had his expectation of a hooker blown out of the water. I was already here, and he’d already counted on sticking his dick in something, and that was the only reason he was going to go ahead with this.

They look at the ads, pick out cherry pink assholes pointed at cameras, glistening dripping pussies, docile faces with tits that look as big to you as they did when you were a little kid. Then we show up, stretch marked and stringy haired, scars and pancake titties, pussies that look like roast beef sandwiches. They have every right to feel cheated, you know. I totally get it. But I keep thinking one day I’ll walk through the door and the guy will think instead, “This bitch may not be the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, but she’s better than anything I could normally score, and she’s  about to fuck me better than anyone ever has.”

Instead he fucked me twice, tipped me poorly, and made a face like he wanted to spit me out of his memory as he let me out the front door. I clicked on my heels over cracked sidewalks toward the car where Max was waiting, talking on his blue tooth in Russian, not bothering to look at me as I legged into the back seat and slathered purell over my arms and legs. I tossed the wad of money up to the front seat and tried to remember baking pies in the winter, offering things that were parts of me that nobody could be unhappy to receive.

Reader Mailbag: Do you actually like women?

March 23, 2011 § Leave a comment


“Jess” asks:

Also – do you actually like women? It seems like you like pretty girls and getting off, but I can’t tell if you actually like women.

I mean, sometimes.

Sometimes I like them, sometimes I don’t like them. Or rather, I like some women and not other women. I end up hanging out with tons of women these days, to the point where I am now like the annoying woman who says she can’t stand other women and all her friends are men. Because she can’t stand all the “drama,” etc., etc.
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Seventy Seven Cents on the Dollar

March 18, 2011 § Leave a comment


I keep hearing on Adam Carolla that women made more money than men last year.  Women made 51% of the money.  Because construction jobs went away, basically. There are less employed carpenters, electricians, and plumbers.  Dude jobs.  This must be money made by wage earners only because I can’t imagine that a couple big hedge fund guys alone couldn’t tip the balance back towards the bros.  But maybe those are joint assets.  So maybe it’s true: women made more money than men.*

I’ve brought this up a couple times, to a couple women, and they both freaked out.  Like, NO, that is NOT TRUE.  Or even if it were, women still make less for the same work anyway.  If you and me had the same job, I would be making seventy seven cents on the dollar.

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Diary 3/4/11: I need to get laid

March 17, 2011 § Leave a comment


I could have fucked her.  If I had played my cards right.  If I had gone for the makeout earlier.  I got her back to my house.  I got her shirt off, anyway, although she kept buttoning her pants back up.  But when I was kind of kissing around her hipbones, she was getting really hot.  So, I should have played it better.  I should have gotten those pants off.  I could have done it.  I could have gotten her hot enough to get her pants off, and then I would have fucked her.  And I would be just as hung over, just as sleep-deprived, just as tired, but I would have gotten laid.

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Do You Think Bartenders Drink When They Get Home?

March 14, 2011 § Leave a comment


You come home from his place smelling like old man cologne, red wine, and elderly ballsack. When he comes you don’t dare look him in the eye. It’d be like getting caught peeking out the blinds at someone you suspect is stealing something from the neighbors. You just take his old cock in your hand, in your mouth, in your pussy, and you close your eyes tight and make a few sexy noises as his old jizz drips out of him like the running nose of a dirty kid in a trailer park.

You used to play with those kids, and the boys liked you a lot then, too. So did their fathers, uncles, and brothers. Sometimes their grandfathers, if spry enough, took a shine to you as well. Someone always had a silty bottomed two foot kiddie pool to sit in on summer days feeling the eyes of those men and boys on your belly, your legs, and they’d always keep an eye on your mouth.
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