paper cuts

“You know what sucks? Masturbating when you’ve got a bunch of paper cuts. Your fingers hurt and it distracts from the whole enjoyment part of jerking off.”

I looked at my buddy in the barstool next to me. He just said that. I wondered if he was just saying it to say it, or if he’d done that a few minutes ago and was now ruminating on the consequences.

“Let me see your hands,” I said.

He pulled his hands away from his bottle of Budweiser. A longneck, as always. They were not the hands of a working man. They had no blisters. No calluses. No broken fingernails. Not even a bruise. But, his fingers each had little red marks on them.

“Paper cuts?” I asked.

“Yep. Damn things hurt too.”

“I don’t even want to know.”

His wife came into the bar. Gave us the sheepish look she always does when she knows we were just talking about something “important.”

“Hey guys. What’s cracking?”

I looked at my buddy. He but his hands back around his Budweiser and took a long gulp. I guess that meant I had to come up with conversation for the moment.

“Me and your husband here were talking about paper cuts,” I said with a smile and a quick sip of my beer.

“Really?” she said. “And what brought this up on this glorious morning here in the bar?”

Instantly I knew that it wasn’t his masturbating that he was talking about. It was him trying to get her off today. Ha. Life is good sometimes.

“Oh, you know, it’s what us guys talk about. Paper cuts and daffodils.”

My buddy gave me an icy stare. It had been years since I got that stare. Way before he was married. Hell, back then, I thought he was as gay as they got. Instead, that fucker went and married his schoolgirl sweetheart. Me? I just kept fucking up relationships, one after the other. I even got in touch with my old schoolgirl sweetheart. Gotta love the internet. But a couple of weeks after I added her on Facebook (and she accepted!!!!) still not working up the nerve to even say hello, she put on that she was “in a relationship.” Such is life. Hell, the high school sweetheart sent me a message. I responded. She never responded back. Ha. I have a way with the ladies for sure.

But now he was giving me the “STFU” look. I guess those vaginal juices were still burning his open wounds.

I decided that when I got home tonight, I’d cut my fingers and try to jerk off. Just to see if, indeed, it hurt more than the pleasure you received. If I was a betting man, which I’m not, I’d say no. That the pleasure would win.

“How ‘bout them Redskins?” I suggested as a conversation starter and way around this whole paper cut theme.

She gave me an icy stare and ordered a Harp. At least she wasn’t going to carry a grudge. We all then proceeded to drink copious amounts of alcohol and just enjoy each other’s company. It didn’t happen often enough. They lived far away. They were rich. I’m poor. It makes for embarrassing moments and conversations.

“You should come up and go to New York next weekend with us?”

“Um, I can’t. Too expensive.”

“Shit, we’ll pay for it.”

“Yeah, I wish I could, but I work Friday and Saturday nights. Unlike you normal folks in the world.”

I used my shitty profession as a crutch many times. Like the many times girls want to go out with me and I’m just not interested or just can’t afford to. “We can hang out on Sunday or Monday!” The response is always the same: “But, I’ve got to work…”

Oh well. Being old and broke and horny all the time should make for inspiration at some point in my life. Of course, it didn’t when I was young and broke and horny. Of course, my dick worked a lot better then.

That got me thinking of paper cuts again. I don’t remember what movie it was, but somebody, I’d like to say it was Harvey Keitel but I know it wasn’t, described the vagina as a paper cut. I’m sure it was in reference to a young woman’s private areas, not that of a 39 year old. Not that I’d know anything about what a well-worn pussy looked like. Blessing? Yes. Curse? Of course. I’d rather see an old twat than no twat.

You start to wonder when it’ll stop. The dry spells. They seem to get worse the older I get. When I was young, I knew it was going to end. Now? I’m old. I could go out and score some ass. I know that. I’m not ugly. I have a decent rap. I just don’t like using it. Except when I want to. And that doesn’t happen very often.

The last time was a red head. Always a red head. She blew me off within five minutes of meeting me. But we’ve become friends. I do that. I collect friends. I’m that guy. John Cusack without a curveball to get the batters out.

It happens. And one day it’ll happen again.

Just like one day I’ll masturbate with paper cuts on my fingers. Just to see if it hurts.