It occurred to me as I left the gym at 10PM with Metallica’s Dyer’s Eve shredding the eye-Pod that I might never get laid again.
My only real deliverance this past decade has been annual sojourns to Tijuana brothels, and Califonia’s taint is far, far, away from Old Folks, Florida.
There was some minor excitement 2 years ago when I’d been given a call girl’s number and tax money would soon arrive to pay for her. To prepare I went out and bought “oils” and a massage table and was even doing shit around the house men never do, like cleaning the bathroom. For a week I had a spring in my step and a shine on my balls in delighted anticipation! I was a fine member in good standing of the human race, and then just like a rotten sitcom twist, as I was going on and on to the middleman friend about how excited I was, he explained our pal who gave me her number told me NOT to call her, she wasn’t accepting new clients. My heart broke like the damn in New Orleans, putting out all Cajun fires of catfish hope. I was so destroyed I’ve never cleaned the bathroom since. But for one blissful the week just the promise of pussy made me want to be a better john.
I have no plans to visit out West, and good thing. The gods of chastity ironically enjoy FUCKING with poor bastards like me. The first obstacle was created by a team-up of islamofascist turbaned dickheads and the US govt: a mandatory ‘passport card’ costing around $100 is now required for foot travel between Future Mexico and Regular Mexico. You’re also probably aware by now about the skyrocketing price of fuel which (again, ironically) has grounded a shitload of planes and made ticket prices sky-high. Rounding out the chaos and hopelessness, my last and only friend in Cali has no place for me to stay and—one more gag—narco-terrorist gun battles have made it unsafe for Americans to even visit TJ. If all of this vanished I’d still be out of luck: a quarter of each month’s pay goes to student loans paying down a worthless, rip-off education, so saving up would take well over a year anyway.
It’s a shame, really. The whores I’ve been with (always in countries where hooking is legal) have all been 9s and 10s, quality over quantity. Usually it’s a good time, if not mechanical and predictable, but sexual fucking is the only thing in life where just going through the motions still yields a quality outcome.
If you’re a woman (still) reading this, well, that’s not possible. If you’re a dude, let me say I appreciate in advance any “suggestions” you may have brainstormed about “what I should do,” but none of it’s going to work. I don’t dance, i don’t sing, I don’t buy drinks and I don’t make small talk. Fuck the cover charge and slit the throat of the bouncer that will be talking home the hot chick anyway. I’ve given up. Even though I hate clowns, the gods have made me one; I’ll never get on with this fucked-up, retarded society that will always be uglier and more rotten than me. I’m too clever, dumb, arrogant, shy, proud, angry, vicious, and goddamn it sensitive to properly cope with the many lightning bolts of pure shit striking at every corner and turn. All I have left is a sense of humor, and that’s about as much an aid to getting laid as shitting your pants.
The blonde at work has big tits but a weak chin. I hate women, I hate men, I hate myself 23-hours-a-night but I’m too lazy to die so I’ll further hate voices, pictures, faces, eyes, words, every last fart of the illusion.
Someone must die and it won’t always be me.
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