The Pussy

Gender Studies

Weekend. What do I have lined up. AA pancake breakfast. Talk to my parents. Poor mother had a bad dream about me. Now I have to call her. Love my parents. But if talking to someone doesn’t get me pussy I’d rather play Xbox.

Clean the house. Everything is clean the house. Go to the doctor wash the dishes hang with my parents. Drive homeless alcoholics to the fucking pancake breakfast. Wash the dishes there. This pain in my gut is some cancerous organ. Tree fungus all over my innards. I’ll die in agony. This weekend, my last shot before my dick falls off. Spent it helping the fucking hobos. They all have 6 kids they don’t have to pay for and get more ass than me.

I should go to that whorehouse in Chinatown. Pay a hooker to touch me so I don’t go crazy. But it’ll be some 50 year old. What are the odds the Chinese rub and tug by the Sunset/ Beaudry Jack in the Box has a fresh faced junior idol teen. What are the odds she’ll lovingly stroke my ass crack with her hair. Why fuck a whore in America. In the Philippines they kiss you. Fuck you raw. Here it’s a medical procedure.

Pay to be masturbated by an old shrew who doesn’t speak English. Hint of repulsion in her eyes. The only crack in her Oriental inscrutability. If she liked it it’d be worse. You’d start wondering: does she think I’m handsome. Better not blow it.

Less God more pussy. Less AA more money. Less driving fucking homeless people around. More horse porn and coke. I’ve been of too much service to society. I should get a free pass to take a flame thrower to the school gym while the kids are playing dodgeball.

Less humility. More arrogance. Less pulling out. Less condoms. Less comforting some dumb needy tinder idiot afterward. Less not impregnating Pinay hookers. More impregnating Pinay hookers. Less truth more lies. Less spinach more burritos. Less family more dirtbags. More cocaine. More of the girls who come with cocaine. I’ll get viagra so I don’t have acorn dick.

Otherwise what’s the point. I’m a machine for paying taxes.

Someone used to clean your house. Cook your meals. Bear your children. Take care of them. Sleep with you. Sleep with nobody else but you. Hand you a drink when you walked in the house. All you had to do was what you do now. Get up. Go to work. Make money. All you have to do now is: all that. Plus what someone once did for you. What you get is: half what you got before.

Someone used to need you. Listen to you. Now you don’t make enough money. You don’t wash the dishes enough. Work used to be eight hours. Now fourteen. She works fourteen hours too. And proud of it. Someone used to put your kids’ drawings on the refrigerator. Now she emails you Slate articles saying even in this day and age men do 40% less housework. Wash a fucking dish you god damn barbarian. 45 minutes between your drive home and dreams of your boss’s lizard eyes. 45 minutes; how come the dishes aren’t done.

I’m a feminist. But feminism destroyed life. In return 2% of us get meaningless pussy. A woman was a house scrubbing ham baking slave, sure. That’s bad. Now we’re both slaves providing data driven solutions to Millennial brand engagement in the CPG space. Slaves to establishing ownership of the trans teen bullying issue for Johnson and Johnson’s Clean and Clear brand flammable industrial solvent for children’s faces. Twice as many people work. Shit just got twice as expensive. No house. No vacation. 14 hours selling shit to unhappy people who sell shit to stupid people.

Whatever. Things were never good. People were never happy. Why covet an ideal based on Donna Reed reruns. But now I’m nothing to you. You’re a fleshlight to me. This shit isn’t working. I’m not some reactionary. But I do think it would be better if you were sold to me at 13, couldn’t vote, work, read or drive. And if it were legal to beat you.