The Pussy

Sugar Baby

She was in Mexico and she’d left him. He’d bought her a plane ticket to visit him. She said extracting money from men made her feel love. He acquiesced. Then he said a mean thing on the internet. She read it. I don’t think it’s a good idea to see you anymore. Take care, she said, on Whatsapp. Above it her picture smiling like the sweetheart of Sigma Chi.

What to say back. You don’t mean this. You’re crashing off ecstasy, off coke; you’re drunk and fucking some meathead but you’ll remember you love me when you’re back.

Or: fair enough, give me back the plane fare money.

Or let it hang. Always the best answer. Say nothing. Let her fight it out in her own head and come back to… what, the truth? No, this was a woman.

But she was different.

She was leaving him or not. Either way, fine. But the first time a girl says goodbye is a fakeout. Responding makes you look weak. Buying into her world which she knows is crazy. She wants you to not take her bullshit. But I want her bullshit, he thought. Don’t leave me. I want her to be with me in my bed while the cold rain shakes the trees outside my window, I want that to be happening now instead of her being in Mexico with some 2d tier city stockbroker listening to his jaw shiver as he yammers coke talk about the Dave Matthews band or whatever Texas finance people talk about. Big game hunting. Church.

He got on OKCupid. Sent 20 messages as welcome as an Adobe Flash update and one that stuck. He’d wanted a break from this but now a firm hand was needed. She had a body like a fat little boy and her teeth were planted by a drunk. I don’t want to sleep with you, she said when they got back to his apartment. No one does but somehow it happens. She was 20; her cunt was dirty; she’d been out drinking and hadn’t showered in 36 hours and he knew he’d be smelling his left hand jerking off for days. Nature accepts no substitutes. He went to look at Whatsapp with the feeling of just having fucked new pussy. Her message still hurt. I’m sorry, he texted. Then erased it. Then he called her a retarded cunt and erased it and then he had to drive the 20 year old home. They all live in Koreatown now.

What’s the worst case scenario, he thought. She never comes back. What you had was nothing. Or worse it was something and you ended it hurting her. You let it hang, you’ll never know. Text back I’m sorry. Text back: donate the plane fare to the retarded cunt foundation. I’d say make it in your name but that’d be redundant.

She’ll get over it when she gets over it. Women are like the weather. All you can do is get under a roof. You’ll never see her again. This was your last chance to feel something. She’s pretty but that’s just inconvenient. Every rich prick on earth chases after her. She’s compelled to be with them like me with the college girls, he thought. But they don’t have what we have.

But what if they do. What if she has 20 men she shares herself with and there’s enough to go around.

She believed in God and helped disadvantaged teens. She did coke and fucked married men and got rape me drunk four nights a week. She was a good writer. That alone, impossible. What did I lose it for, he thought. I didn’t mean anything bad. He’d written ten things calling her a cunt and each one got a text saying: I loved it. But the last one didn’t have the little hook. The bit about this is why I love her. It had a title with the word “pussy,” ensuring many views. People like to read fuck cunt pussy.

She never loved me. She was just bored. Now she’s not. You can have her as long as she doesn’t have a better offer. Or a job. Her own money. A Nintendo. A dog. A Netflix show she likes. You can have her for as long as she’s desperate as you while everyone offers her everything. You need a woman so damaged she drives everyone else away. A woman as lonely as you. You need a retarded woman, he thought. A woman who had her legs chopped off. Not an inspirational one who runs marathons on carbon fiber sticks either. A woman with chopped off legs who’s miserable. You need Terry Schiavo on full life support; spoon her pureed butternut squash, watch her squint trying to comprehend Dora the Explorer. She’d still find a better deal. Good luck out there, he texted, and erased it.

Now she’s not coming and I could text her back but it’s gone too long. Anyway she’s getting fucked in Mexico, he thought. Good luck out there. I must admit I’m half in love with her. More fool I.