The Loser

[One of the dirtier stories I have locked up in my drawer (metophorically [is that a word?])]

OK keep it cool, keep it cool. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Alright, stare at her in the eyes, not at the breasts. Fuck, why cleavage on the first date? Fuck fuck fuck. Look at those tits. It’s like a Cambodian kid staring at a water fountain in the distance. So lush and soothing. The goose bumps slightly roughen up the smoothness a little. My cock rises against the tightness of my pants as it slowly rises. The things I’d do to have my tongue wrapping around her nipples at pace of a hundred miles per hour. They must be the crested jewels of eternal life. I love this woman. This is the woman of my dreams. I can imagine myself fifteen years from now coming home from work and fucking her by the kitchen sink while the kids are in bed dreaming about astrophysics. Make it end. I want this. Make it happen, dude. OK keep it cool. She’s talking about art, I know this, I know art. I like art, I don’t get it, but I like it and I like to think it’s what I’m good at. She’s going on about Camus’ L’Etranger, I told her I read it when I didn’t. I am a fucking idiot. Why lie? Now I’m just digging the hole. Look at those tits! Christ she’s wearing a hot pink bra, caught a glimpse. Fuck, I think she might have caught me. No-no-no-no it’s all good, stay cool man, stay cool, wipe the sweat away from the forehead subtlety. You are the man, you are the cock, the possible breadwinner for the future wife and children, and you are a sex God. No one can thrust at a faster pace. C’mon man this isn’t that hard. Well… Be tough but soft, women like the best of both worlds, right? Be incessant in your pursuit, be ecstatic and eclectic and smart and show off without being pretentious. Incessant reminds me of incest, which is weird. Is this chick even eighteen? She’s in university, she has to be. Make her think you want her but you don’t want to be licking her clit all night. I am the man. The man needs some action too. Wipe the sweat. Let’s do this.

She looks at me in the eyes.

“How do you like my tits?”

FUCK.

“They’re… they’re great really. Really great, I mean, I really am mystified by cellular biology and adaptation you know, like the whole nature nurture, survival of the fittest, natural selection Darwin garbage. It really has come to define humanity. And it’s simply grand how breasts provide milk as if the body is born simply to be a mechanism for birth! It’s amazing really. It’s amazing.”

She stares at me straight-up, not even giving a hint. Eyes droopy. And then it comes. The spasmodic laugh of a hyena on Ritalin and vodka echoing through my ears right into my face. The tears are streaming down her eyes. I am funny. I’m good. This is good.

“Where do you go to school again, Chris?”

Lie lie lie lie lie lie lie lie.

“McGill.”

“And you’re a biochemistry graduate I’m supposing.”

“You got it. Might even apply to law school after this next degree.”

“Really now. Well personally Chris, I think you’re full of shit.”

I blew it. Like a sperm whale. Blew it like a sperm whale attacking a boat of seamen. Blew it like Pam blew Tommy. Like a prostitute on a pervert. Fucked it up again.

“Well technically Michelle, we are all full of shit. The digestive tract works in such a way where…”

“Goodbye Chris.”

And then there is the distance of the goodbye walk, as I sit in shame. The black leggings are tight against the cup of her ass as it swishes back and forth with each step. Christ. I didn’t have a chance.

I am sitting on my faux-leather comfort chair in front of my computer (newly installed with Windows 98) and I am watching a blonde streaked women shove a ten inch cock down her throat, choking and gargling herself, gagging, tears in eyes. They claim that she is bustiest of busty and I am not arguing. I then wonder how one can be certified-busty; is there a bureau for this type of business? I continue to jerk my cock faster and faster with my right arm getting tired, but I am getting off to the blonde rubbing her tongue around the head of the ten inch cock and I eventually jizz all over my keyboard in unison with the male porn star over the blonde’s face. And as soon as it’s over, I am instantly repulsed by myself and I close the screen as fast as possible. I can’t believe this disgusting objectification, this mindless quick fix. I am utterly disgusted by myself and feel pity for the underage teen sucking cock. And yet, I can’t look away when it is in front of me. This shit is hypnotizing me, it’s just too easy to avoid. I’m actually surprised how a mere ten inch cock can excrete so little semen, but then I just assume it’s all in the business of porn. This is terrible.

Thing is, no one wants to live life anymore, they just want to see it. That explains this whole porn fiasco all over the internet. Sure, guys can be fucking women in real life and vice versa, but at the end of the day, that involves action and meaning and the strings attached are terrible. Humanity would much rather watch visual imitations of life than live life itself. How do you explain film and TV? Life is fucking boring, right? We need this shit to consume until it eventually it consumes us.

And honestly, what is with humanity these days? I grab some Kleenex and begin wiping the cum off my hands and the keyboard. I pull out some cookies from the drawer and begin to eat a couple. Fudgee-o’s.

Why are we so fucked? I’m a loser and I can accept that, but why is it that people strive to be anything when nothing is much simpler?
The humidifier in the background continues to hum and I sit and stare and wonder which video game I will play tonight. A sedentary lifestyle only kills those who aren’t sedentary, right? I mean if you just do nothing, you won’t have any complaints, right? It’s always the athletic-freaks and sluts who can’t live life without a little action and carpe diem. But who needs that shit? I’m comfortable. Right?

I think the problem is that people create problems for themselves as if they can’t get enough of their own thrills. Like the way my parents broke up, got back together and then broke up again. Or like the way my uncle can’t stop drinking wine or my sister can’t stop popping pills. Or the way I can’t stop watching porn. It’s because people are sad and can’t deal with it, can’t deal with not being authentic. It’s as if it has something to do with where I grew up. How there isn’t anyone with a helping hand and there is not tucking in at night. It’s all forgettable. Like this. But the point is that I don’t want to go into details about all that and I don’t want you crying over my spilt milk. All this madman stuff has got to end eventually and we have already milked the last cow. I’m sad, inauthentic, forgettable and pathetic. But I am alive.

I think.