The Pussy

Where the Heart Is

I was in Boston for my father’s death and I fired up Tinder. Girls there actually match you. Message you. Can you imagine. Enough to make you think: could I live in the cold. Sidewalks packed with surly oafs in puffy Burlington Coat Factory jackets muttering about the fucking Patriots. Their fat Irish faces. I’m stuck in LA though. My mother moved here. Too much of a twist of the knife to move back to the frozen hell I talked her into leaving. Cold ground so hard you fall and hit it like a car door slamming. Can’t leave my mother. Instead she’ll get to watch her only child die alone. Her genes extinguished.

Alcoholic Anonymous women need to stop being so ugly, frankly. Not you, one girl I’ve slept with from there. The rest of them. Cute girls under 30 don’t last in the program. Too many cool guys with free coke. Or if they do they form little packs. Them and five guys who have their look. Goth, punk, whatever. What the fuck happened to me. I used to dress cool and now I have five half cotton half poly wrinkle free adult dress shirts I conscientiously hang on the shower curtain rod. Tag says no dryer. I obey. I’m a sad old dork and I need a woman to help me dress. Without learning to dress I can’t get a woman.

I have no look. Or I look like the gray collar bootlicking office worm I am. You have to be in a band out here, or look like it. Should have stayed in my small town. My kids would be in high school by now. I could leer at their girlfriends from the top of the rumpus room stairs.

What the fuck happened. Work hard and I’m still poor. Dress like a schlumpy dad from a sitcom, own a certified pre owned mid size family sedan. Watch my puny retirement account rack up returns of 16 cents quarterly. This weekend I gotta go wash the pots at the General Service Pancake Breakfast– I have to get out of this. I need money to get back to the jungle and fuck underage teens in the face pussy and asshole. I need a chimp faced girl from fucking Palawan who can’t read and spends all day whipping a water buffalo. She thinks my hotel room is Hearst castle because it has a toilet. Or some plump guinea nurse out of Northeastern whose parents are blue collar drunks from Malden. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

My dad didn’t die. Now he’s waking up. Emotional roller coaster. Got back and went to AA. Saw my painter friend. He’s marginally famous. I told him I’d been in San Francisco, made an amends. Also I fucked this housewife who writes me emails in a hotel off Telegraph Avenue. I came in her. I hope she gets pregnant. How does that happen, he asked. Well I write shit on a web site. Some of it’s about sex. Girls then write me from various towns and ask to fuck.

So you’re like Tucker Max, he said. The truth is too complicated so I said yes and pictured taking the flamethrower from Alien to Tucker Max, his horsefaced wife and his stupid baby. It’s different. My shit is good and it really happened. Why then is he rich and I’m broke.

But my friend was impressed. I get more ass from this than he gets being Julian Schnabel junior. I can bitch but I have pussy lined up all over the world. Told my old man about it in his coma. Somewhere he laughed.