“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.
Showing posts with label harvey keitel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label harvey keitel. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
powerball
I came home like every other night. Pulled the car into the driveway, cringed a little bit at the cool breeze coming off the ocean, then checked my mailbox.
It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.
The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.
Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.
I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.
My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”
The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.
But was it really ever a secret?
The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.
“It sure is sunny out?”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“Hope it stays that way for a while.”
“Probably won’t. It’s March.”
“What would you do with all that money?”
“Pay off my debts.”
“But a house.”
“Quit this place.”
All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.
I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.
But fucking then what?
“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.
I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.
“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.
“Gross.”
“What a guy thing to say.”
"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.
I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.
“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.
“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”
“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”
“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”
She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.
“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.
“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”
“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”
“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”
“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”
I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.
I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.
It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.
The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.
Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.
I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.
My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”
The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.
But was it really ever a secret?
The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.
“It sure is sunny out?”
“Yep. Sure is.”
“Hope it stays that way for a while.”
“Probably won’t. It’s March.”
“What would you do with all that money?”
“Pay off my debts.”
“But a house.”
“Quit this place.”
All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.
I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.
But fucking then what?
“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.
I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.
“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.
“Gross.”
“What a guy thing to say.”
"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.
I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.
“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.
“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”
“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”
“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”
She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.
“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.
“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”
“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”
“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”
“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”
I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.
I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
dreams lay fallow
I’ve heard that the older you get, the less picky you get. At least when you’re still single. Always single, that is. Not divorced once, twice or three times even. Who told me this? I don’t really remember any one person telling me. Just that is story of came into being as a real thing.
Between my mother telling me I should sign up for an e-harmony account and friends telling me how great a catch I am, and that they “can’t believe” anyone hasn’t snapped me up yet, being single at 40 years old sucks more than I ever imagined it could. Not that I ever imagined being single at this age until I was 36 years old, but still even then I didn’t expect it to be quite like this.
I’ve had my run ins with misanthropy. I’ve been a hermit at times. I’ve been a drunk. A wanderer. A fool. A student. A teacher. A prick. A goof. A dork. An idiot. A lot of things, really.
My dating history isn’t very impressive. Compared to most. Except in my ability to commit. Which, in and of itself, may just be the problem. Or not.
The first girl I dated, she was a slut. She fucked me in bed, then fucked me in the head. Left me wondering what the fuck that was all about. But other than a short-lived obsession with the Buzzcocks and Tom Petty’s first three albums, I survived and actually thrived.
The second one was the first “love of my life.” I’d had a crush on her since the first time my eyes saw hers. And she admitted she felt the same way when we finally got around to dating. Only problem? She was a virgin. I was a dork. And eventually she was a lesbian. Although, technically, I suppose, she always was. At leas that’s what my buddy Matty V. told me one drunken night. Yep.
The third one was a year later. Just someone to occupy time, really. I felt bad for being that way the entire time. And ended up being cruel to her. I’ve always wanted to apologize, but she’s one person who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
The fourth came during my “finding myself” faze of life. Stupid label, but it’s when I finally got the balls to get the fuck out of my mundane existence. I lived with drug dealers, but didn’t do drugs. I rode a motorcycle. I drank exotic things. And I fell in love. Definitely for the first time. Time and distance and way too much thinking about the past lets me know that.
We were passionate about each other. We were too stupid to talk about it. Instead, we played along with whatever life dealt us and didn’t really think about it enough. Then one day, distance and the wrong set of circumstances and choices put it to an end.
The next one was the so-called “love of my life” at least that’s the label I attached to it for way too long after it ended. There wasn’t a moment during the relationship that I doubted it. Not a single second. Even the day it ended. We were so different, I figured it would work. She was driven to succeed. I was driven to be in love. She worried a lot. I never worried at all. She thought of what if, I thought of what next. Eventually, she just stopped. I didn’t understand it then. Didn’t understand it for years. Now, I mostly do. Time and perspective and comparison and such.
The last one was simply crazy. She was 23. I was 36. She had a kid. I didn’t even have a pet. Not even a fish. She was a chameleon that became what the person she was after wanted the most. I was an open book that couldn’t change if I wanted to, no matter how hard I try. The sex was great. I had blinders on to the rest. In the end, she read something I wrote and couldn’t separate the me in that piece of my past and the me that was standing in front of her. That’s what I like to tell myself. To stay sane. I know she just got bored or whatever and moved on to the next. And eventually the next.
I’m cool with it now. All of them. I know where the mistakes were made. I hope they all still think of me in a good way at some time. I didn’t mean to hurt any of them. And I believe all but one of them didn’t try to hurt me either. But, we all hurt each other in some way.
I never thought any of them would end at the beginning. But they all did. A good friend of mine told me more than once “always expect the worst. Then you’ll never be disappointed.” My reaction to that was “man, I can’t live that way. I’d rather be completely disappointed by someone, something or myself, than to never try to find that perfection.”
And that brings me back around. Looking for perfection is impossible. Yet it’s all I do. Not in face. Not in looks. But in love. It’s got to be there. And if it is, it’s perfect. It’s been that way before. It can be that way again. Right?
But, as a man better than me wrote once, and sang a bunch of times… “always hated saying so long. But it always comes to that.”
It’s why one woman in particular stumps me. We get each other. We laugh all the time when we are together. Except when I get stupid drunk and she goes off chasing musicians. But, everyone has things they need to work on right? But anyway, despite these great signals of greatness, there’s no chance. And I’ve known it since the first conversation. There were many on line versions. We e-mailed, we texted, we just did that modern day romance thing that Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan did so well.
Then we met. And within five minutes the conversation somehow steered towards the “perfect” guy and gal. I said my piece, sort of describing her, you know, red hair, a great smile and eyes that tell the truth. Then she said the same kind of thing, except for the end.
“I only have two things that are a killer,” she said, taking a swig of her beer.
“And what are those?” I asked expectantly.
“He’s got to have good teeth and can’t be shy.”
I felt like Harvey Kietel in Bad Lieutenant after Darryl Strawberry doesn’t come up big for the Dodgers. My fate is sealed. I now just have to go through the motions before the gangsters shoot me in the face.
Yet, I keep going back. Because, you know, I can always get my teeth fixed.
Between my mother telling me I should sign up for an e-harmony account and friends telling me how great a catch I am, and that they “can’t believe” anyone hasn’t snapped me up yet, being single at 40 years old sucks more than I ever imagined it could. Not that I ever imagined being single at this age until I was 36 years old, but still even then I didn’t expect it to be quite like this.
I’ve had my run ins with misanthropy. I’ve been a hermit at times. I’ve been a drunk. A wanderer. A fool. A student. A teacher. A prick. A goof. A dork. An idiot. A lot of things, really.
My dating history isn’t very impressive. Compared to most. Except in my ability to commit. Which, in and of itself, may just be the problem. Or not.
The first girl I dated, she was a slut. She fucked me in bed, then fucked me in the head. Left me wondering what the fuck that was all about. But other than a short-lived obsession with the Buzzcocks and Tom Petty’s first three albums, I survived and actually thrived.
The second one was the first “love of my life.” I’d had a crush on her since the first time my eyes saw hers. And she admitted she felt the same way when we finally got around to dating. Only problem? She was a virgin. I was a dork. And eventually she was a lesbian. Although, technically, I suppose, she always was. At leas that’s what my buddy Matty V. told me one drunken night. Yep.
The third one was a year later. Just someone to occupy time, really. I felt bad for being that way the entire time. And ended up being cruel to her. I’ve always wanted to apologize, but she’s one person who seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
The fourth came during my “finding myself” faze of life. Stupid label, but it’s when I finally got the balls to get the fuck out of my mundane existence. I lived with drug dealers, but didn’t do drugs. I rode a motorcycle. I drank exotic things. And I fell in love. Definitely for the first time. Time and distance and way too much thinking about the past lets me know that.
We were passionate about each other. We were too stupid to talk about it. Instead, we played along with whatever life dealt us and didn’t really think about it enough. Then one day, distance and the wrong set of circumstances and choices put it to an end.
The next one was the so-called “love of my life” at least that’s the label I attached to it for way too long after it ended. There wasn’t a moment during the relationship that I doubted it. Not a single second. Even the day it ended. We were so different, I figured it would work. She was driven to succeed. I was driven to be in love. She worried a lot. I never worried at all. She thought of what if, I thought of what next. Eventually, she just stopped. I didn’t understand it then. Didn’t understand it for years. Now, I mostly do. Time and perspective and comparison and such.
The last one was simply crazy. She was 23. I was 36. She had a kid. I didn’t even have a pet. Not even a fish. She was a chameleon that became what the person she was after wanted the most. I was an open book that couldn’t change if I wanted to, no matter how hard I try. The sex was great. I had blinders on to the rest. In the end, she read something I wrote and couldn’t separate the me in that piece of my past and the me that was standing in front of her. That’s what I like to tell myself. To stay sane. I know she just got bored or whatever and moved on to the next. And eventually the next.
I’m cool with it now. All of them. I know where the mistakes were made. I hope they all still think of me in a good way at some time. I didn’t mean to hurt any of them. And I believe all but one of them didn’t try to hurt me either. But, we all hurt each other in some way.
I never thought any of them would end at the beginning. But they all did. A good friend of mine told me more than once “always expect the worst. Then you’ll never be disappointed.” My reaction to that was “man, I can’t live that way. I’d rather be completely disappointed by someone, something or myself, than to never try to find that perfection.”
And that brings me back around. Looking for perfection is impossible. Yet it’s all I do. Not in face. Not in looks. But in love. It’s got to be there. And if it is, it’s perfect. It’s been that way before. It can be that way again. Right?
But, as a man better than me wrote once, and sang a bunch of times… “always hated saying so long. But it always comes to that.”
It’s why one woman in particular stumps me. We get each other. We laugh all the time when we are together. Except when I get stupid drunk and she goes off chasing musicians. But, everyone has things they need to work on right? But anyway, despite these great signals of greatness, there’s no chance. And I’ve known it since the first conversation. There were many on line versions. We e-mailed, we texted, we just did that modern day romance thing that Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan did so well.
Then we met. And within five minutes the conversation somehow steered towards the “perfect” guy and gal. I said my piece, sort of describing her, you know, red hair, a great smile and eyes that tell the truth. Then she said the same kind of thing, except for the end.
“I only have two things that are a killer,” she said, taking a swig of her beer.
“And what are those?” I asked expectantly.
“He’s got to have good teeth and can’t be shy.”
I felt like Harvey Kietel in Bad Lieutenant after Darryl Strawberry doesn’t come up big for the Dodgers. My fate is sealed. I now just have to go through the motions before the gangsters shoot me in the face.
Yet, I keep going back. Because, you know, I can always get my teeth fixed.
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