The Pussy

I Am Not Allowed to Think about Hot Young Pussy

I joined Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Day three of no jerking off. No looking at Tinder, OKCupid. No looking at women with lust in my heart. This means: no looking at women. No fantasizing. Which means: do not think about Lara. Our date to the bird sanctuary. Had to cancel. No thinking about her hair her tits her eyes her face. The curve of her jawline and her neck. Her voice. She likes me. I like her. Kind of a lot. She described me as “a staggeringly talented writer.” We share the exact same opinion on the one important thing.

Don’t think about the taste of her hairy pussy sweating in the summer heat. Her squatting over my face while her AC groans and does not cool the room. No writing about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. Sex is the story. There is nothing else on Earth. Birds, flowers, sunsets: go fuck yourself. Money work friends family sobriety service to other human beings: blow it out your ass. I wake up every morning so I can feel hot salty chowder spurt out of my dick. Preferably into the smelly cooch of an emotionally disturbed teen. Every other moment is just labor to support the meat sac that I am so it can fulfill this purpose. Why have a thoroughbred if you just keep it in the barn.

If you find yourself looking at a woman, look away. Typically I’d masturbate as soon as I got home. Take my vibrating Powerful Male Stroker and strap a medical glove over it. Fill it with Curel® Ultra Healing® Intensive Lotion for Extra Dry Skin, recommended by dermatologists. Tuck it between two pillows. Search Bing® , watch a fat Japanese teen skewered by impossibly long thick Mandingo penis. Jap girl sex sounds weird you out at first, but they grow on you. Plop the unwieldy vibrating pillow Frankenstein on my dick and let it milk me until I cum so fast I’m still only half hard. Then I can think about other things. Other worthless things like food, money, art, literature. And so forth.

Day one I went to an AA meeting. A girl was wearing lingerie for pants. Her boyfriend broke up with her. Her share about it, like reading a young adult ebook written by a Fiverr hire. But dragging my eyes off her succulent young kneecaps was like pulling a mother away from a burning house with her kid in it. I want Sharia law imposed. Burqas for all. The back of a thick nurse’s jiggly hamstring. Inch of a schoolgirl’s elbow, miraculously without that weird texture like the butt end of a baked chicken drumstick. You realize it’s because she’s twelve years old.

Everywhere. You don’t know how much you think about sex until you try to stop, they told me. Bullshit, I thought. Or true for every man but me. Have you read my shit?

I was wrong. I think about sex more than I talked about. More than is physically possible– I distort time to think about fucking. I think about fucking within fucking within fucking like Inception. Can’t have a woman in my peripheral vision without latching on to her like the Terminator. Picture my tongue on every inch of her skin. Lick off her makeup and her lilac scented Secret®, strong enough for a man PH balanced for a woman. Her half lilac half summer taint smelling sweat therefore clocking in at a perfect 7.0 as I feast on her three day armpit stubble. Don’t write about sex unless it’s necessary to the story. What else am I going to write about, the fucking economy? Guys chasing money so they can fuck.

No conversations with women. This is easy. If I don’t do all the work, nothing happens. Sometimes not even then. My sponsor shared an anecdote about his spiritual growth. His band had played a show. A cute girl spoke to him in a flirtatious manner. He turned her away. The shining trophy of sexual sobriety is: you can turn down pussy if it throws itself at you. Well what if you’re not in a band. What if you’re a conscientious hardworking reasonably well dressed taxpayer, aka: nothing. I’ve had two women approach me in my lifetime. One of them was a virgin who went crazy. Called me every day for two years. The other was a retarded Chinese Jehovah’s Witness. The week before she’d slept with a homeless guy from the subway. I took her bowling, then home. Pulled up her dress and licked her soft belly. Her little panties with a tiny salt crust from her fat cu– DON’T THINK ABOUT IT