Turn the Page

Originally Published: 5/28/09

And she's all, "When we gettin' married, honey?"
So I'm like, "Pow!" Right in the kisser.

I've dragged on and on until the words themselves are droll and featureless. Uninspiring, unamusing, and shamefully devoid of all but the pattern. The cyclic, same old, tired, bullshit pattern. It's my "I want to fuck you," to her "I love you." Then a week, or six months, or two years down the line I can't take it. We never shoulda made it in the first place, you shoulda left when it hit third base. Maybe I'm just too irresistable. Or maybe I'm more easily swayed by a hole and a scent and an invitation than I thought. I get tired of fooling myself, and even more tired of tricking a bitch into thinking she means something. That's chauvinistic, but what other option do I have?

I think maybe, in the future (as every poor planner does), I'll do it a little differently. For now, though, I'm not sure I've learned a lesson. Sure, I'm more easily distracted than a poodle with a whopping dose of ADHD, and sure it sucks to be the asshole. But, in retrospect, despite the completely superfluous nature of my emotional attachments, I've treated them like precious stones. I carefully clean and polish and collect each one. Then I set them on a shelf where they scream obscenities at me in the middle of the night. So, when I grow tired of losing sleep, I stick them in a cupboard that will muffle the noise and, eventually, I forget about them altogether. Until a friend comes along who likes to see where I've been. That's a metaphor, and a god damned good one.

Not that men are any different. If I was into them, I'm certain it'd be the same thing. I'm all "Look at the cock and balls on that guy," and he says "Let's cuddle Sunday morning until the shitheads get home from church." Not my bag (of nuts) but I doubt it'd be any different.

I'm not saying I can't fall in love, I'm just saying my dick tends to get there first. When the rest of me catches up, I'm forced to confront the very real possibility that my dick is fucking retarded. And, I suppose, that makes sense. It doesn't have a functioning brain, just a highly technical system of nerves and impulses. It reacts, but it never really acts of its own accord. My brain is off doing something else (quantum physics perhaps, but the details are sketchy) and Big McLarge-Huge (that's his nickname, like a fat guy named Tiny) gets going in a direction and doesn't wait for his pals before he heads off to the party. Except the testicles, they bring the party favors.

Don't get me wrong here, I'm in no way against my own lifestyle. I've met some pretty interesting people, and I'll admit I have ended up inside a good number of them. However, that doesn't discount the handful of real, genuine, temporary emotional investments I've made. It's hard work being a slut with feelings. Balancing the possibility that you're in love with another person for something aside from their genitals with the fact that you really like their genitals isn't as easy as the pros make it seem. By pros, of course, I mean high school cheerleaders (by and large, not all of them are sluts. Some of them are just cunts).

You know, I'm taking a moment to pause and gather my thoughts and it occurs to me that this whole thing is a lot like that Bob Seger song I hate so much. The one Metallica covered a few years (a decade?) back and turned into a worthless pile of whining shit. You know the one. He spends three plus minutes bitching about how hard it is to slam a new girl every night and feel his music, his creation, pouring out of his body to audiences all over the world while simultaneously being galactically fucked up on the best free (FREE!) drugs know to man. Of course, that song wasn't his last. Ol' B.S. went on and made a few more millions after that, eh? Oh, cry me a river, bro, you're like, totally rolling in available (not necessarily good, did you see that I left out the good part?) poon and you're whining about how your brain can't keep up with all the VD you're avoiding and all the manchowder you dish out to hungry, hungry whores?

Not whining, no. I'm making a statement. And fuck you, hypothetical douchebag, for making erroneous accusations in your stupid bro voice.

I'm a little bit of a liar too. I'm really not rolling in available poon. It just seemed more amusing to word it that way. Truth is, I haven't had time to go out chasing the velvet curtain (like a leprechaun, only instead of a pot of gold you get a bunch of semi-paralyzing orgasms when you catch it) in a few months. Instead I go to work, hit on everything with a vagina (it gets me tips and returning customers, I swear. Its just in my personality to be flirtatious), come home, get drunk, maybe sniff some nose candy here and there (not really. I mean, unless it gets you wet...), watch a movie, talk to the small handful of friends who've deemed me worthy enough to deal with this kind of bullshit, rub one out, and get a few hours shut-eye. It's an alright life, if you throw in the occasional game of slap-and-tickle, grab-ass, a little roll in the hay, a few rounds of jaiger and one bizarre anal experience every now and again.

I have been getting erections at work again lately. I know, that's both awesome and really unnecessary information. Still, you're my readers and I feel like you should know needless crap. I haven't shaved my balls in two weeks. Okay, that one was a lie.

Part of me wants to try settling again. See if the brain or the heart can beat my cock to the finish this time. But another part of me, maybe a larger part, hasn't come to grips yet with the fact that there are an unreasonable amount of absolutely beautiful women out there that, for one strange reason or another, have yet to gobble my ham and turkey meatwhich (another nickname for the little guy). That isn't to say that every person without a swinging man-member between their legs (and probably a few with one) wants to sprawl out and take one for the team. But on some days, Thursdays usually, I convince myself that that's so. They all want that dick. I'd say this dick, but its currently sitting next to me, shaking its head disapprovingly and smoking a cigar.

I suppose you can't turn a whore into a housewife, but you can turn a whole shitload of whores into a house of pussy and buttholes. I'd like to live there. If only for a short while. Best thirty seconds of their lives, at least.

If all of this seems like a whole lot of filth crammed into a few paragraphs, you're on the right track to recovering. Recovering from what? The brain disfunction that ever made you think you liked me in the first place. So close those legs, wipe that load off (the one I ninja-blew on your lips while you were reading this) and disinfect that tasty snatch. You're onto bigger and better things. Me? I'm pretty content to wallow in the debauchery I've become so accustomed to. I'm always looking for new people down here on my level, so if you haven't tired of the games feel free to invite your friends. Don't give them my name, just introduce me as Cockzilla and they'll figure out pretty fast why they came all this way to meet me. Probably in less time than it takes for them to smoke a ciggarette and ask the Man Jesus to end it all.

Who wants butt sex?

One for all, and all for oral,
-S.R.