Finally, another take on this tune. I´ve only played it a million times but still this has got me going one direction when I should´ve gone another.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Bad Clutch
"She stole the used rubber?"
I asked this question both because you don´t get to say a sentence like that every day and also because I really needed to understand what Ron was saying, or if he was so stoned that he was no longer making sense.
"That´s what got me worried. I looked for it everywhere. She stole it off my cock while I was passed out."
Ignoring the horrible image now developing in my head I ask, "Why would she steal a used rubber?"
"To tell the police that I raped her. You know whores. That´s how I got run out of here five or six years ago. I started getting nasty looks from the taxi drivers and then the sheriff pulled me over in my RV and said, ´drive north.´I didn´t need to be told twice. But on the way north I started hearing this popping sound and I looked behind me and three taxis were chasing me and the motherfuckers were shooting at me with pistols. You know the taxi drivers are the unofficial posse in this country?"
I am under Ron´s dashboard examining his clutch cylinder that totally fell apart this morning. It is a 2003 Ford Focus and 80% of it is plastic. The remaining 20% is aluminum. I am so disgusted that I don´t even care Ron was at one point being chased by taxi drivers shooting at him. The funny thing is that he doesn´t care that I don´t care. I´m not even sure he cared at the time he was being shot at.
"I out ran them for a while but they had called ahead and it got real fucking messy in Loreto. I ended up hiding on top of my RV under a bridge. They had shovels with them. Turns out they thought I was raping girls in La Paz. Why would I rape girls when I can rent their pussies for so cheap? The word got around and they were going to kill my ass. But I got away. How is it looking under there?"
"I can´t believe this car was allowed to be driven. I can´t believe the engineer went to school first. A fucking child who owns a go kart would design a better car. At what point are resources so scarce that people just decide to refrain from manufacturing disposable shit?"
"That good huh? Can you fix it?"
"Give me some fucking credit."
I can fix it. It´s built like a car made of Styrofoam. Awful, but Ron is nevertheless comforted.
"Well, even if you can´t at least I got my shopping done. I got beer. I got a pound of pot. You want some?"
"No."
"You want a whore? I´m thinking about buying one. I´ll just get two. You can get a price break that way because they share the taxi."
"That´s all right."
"No? How is it going with your girlfriend?"
I´ve already explained that the girl he is talking about is not my girlfriend, but he calls her that because it is easier, I suppose, than saying "the girl you want to bang"
"We´ve got some bad chemistry." I say simply, though the truth as I interpret it is too complicated to discuss, involving not just chemistry but also emotional security and relationship roles and philosophy and geometry and language.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I say absurd shit, she takes it seriously and uses the opportunity to scold me and feel superior. Then I defend myself and we argue over nothing. I don't think I've told one joke she thought was funny."
"What did you say?"
"I said I was going to sell a kidney and join the Mexican circus. I said I wanted to manage the game where you throw a ball at a stuffed monkey. I was going to be the stuffed monkey wrangler. "
Ron crushed his cigarette and immediately lit another one.
"How much you going to get for the kidney?"
"See, if she had responded like that we probably would have ended up fucking," I say laughing. "God damn it! No. She has to take me seriously? Over something absurd like a stuffed monkey? She says one absurd thing after another..´I want to sniff glue, I drank tequila for two straight days, how does my hair look, I like that dress but not that one. I like shoes with straps...´bullshit. Absurd bimbo bullshit. Do I take her seriously? No. Do I define her by these random statements? No. But I say I want to go to Honduras and die in a revolution and she goes berserk. It´s like my fucking childhood all over again!"
"I thought you said you were gonna wrangle stuffed monkeys."
Sometimes Ron actually pays attention, which keeps me on my toes.
"Well I say a lot of absurd things. I can say whatever I want and sometimes I say absurd things, but people take me seriously. It isn´t fair. Did you see many cases of plastic explosives in my van? Or AK-47s? Or hand grenades? Or stuffed monkeys? I mean, if I told you...like...I was going to Russia to marry a woman I had never met what would you say?"
Without hesitation Ron says, "Don´t do it. DO NOT FUCKING DO IT! Those Russian mail order broads are completely insane. You´re better off adopting a pretty Russian girl and raising her to be your wife. You´d be guaranteed pussy then. Believe me, the adult women are beyond repair."
I wince as I don´t know how to respond to this response. I went from trying to prove a point by saying something insanely absurd to hearing something insanely absurd...but dead serious. This is a classic conversation with Ron.
"My point," I say, "is that I think out loud sometimes...and my thoughts don´t come out sounding completely normal. People just have to translate. Why is that hard? I don´t speak English. Only two people in my life have figured that out so far. My best friend...who is now dead. And an ex-girlfriend who now dates women. This girl here, she hasn´t figured that out yet. When I say I want to sell my kidney I just mean that I am bored with life...that I want her to make my life more interesting. That, in fact, wrangling stuffed monkeys in a Mexican circus is the philosophical equivalent of being a supreme court justice. See?"
"Jesus Christ, Oggy, you´ve got some admirable traits but sometimes you make no sense at all. Men are supposed to be the ones who speak directly. Don´t be obtuse. Tell her what you mean. Anyway, the way to impress a girl is not to say you would be happier tending a stuffed monkey...under any circumstances...with or without both your kidneys. I mean, think about it."
"Yeah, yeah. You think I haven´t thought about it? That´s all I do. Give me some fucking credit."
This is my new catch phrase. I look back under the clutch pedal, at a world I understand.
"How much does she charge?"
"She's not a hooker, dude."
"It sounds like she's a hooker to me. Maybe she's playing the long con."
"Well, then she's busting my balls for free."
Ron made some guttural sound. "You see, Oggy, I just like fucking regular young girls who want to make some money on the side. I don´t have anything to offer a girl except wisdom, experience and good conversation."
This is Ron's catch phrase and it never ceases to annoy me. He thinks it is funny because he's understating his qualities and sort of being self-pitying but I have yet to find a good response to it other than indifference. I reach under the clutch pedal and feel around the master cylinder. It is in two pieces but all the pieces are connected to a rod that can only be removed by unscrewing the whole pedal assembly. That´s going to suck.
Ron says, "Hey, I actually know a guy who will buy your kidney."
I throw the wrench down and yell, "I´m not selling my kidney! I´m not joining the circus. I´m not joining a revolution. I just like saying it. It sounds good to my ears. It just sounds good to say, ´I want to manage a stuffed monkey game in a Mexican Circus.´That sounds interesting...but I would hate it after five minutes. So I´m not going to do it. It´s absurd. I know it is absurd but saying it is how I cope with my crummy life. Alright? Give me some fucking credit. I like fixing cars and playing guitar. That´s probably what I´ll do for the rest of my life. But that doesn´t sound as good. So I don´t say it as much. If people would just pay attention to what I do and not what I say then there would be no problems."
Ron laughs. "I was just kidding. Jesus. I can see why you two like to argue. You say one thing and mean another. She says one thing and means another. You´re right about the bad chemistry. Although, usually women who argue are the best fucks."
I groan as I look back under the dashboard.
"Yeah? I argued with my last girlfriend all the time and she fucked like a rolled up carpet."
"Well, Oggy, you don't exactly strike me as a cocksmith.
"Eh?"
"I mean, you can probably entertain a girl, charm them, make 'em laugh, sing a few songs, fix their car's brake pads, but when it comes time to fuck 'em, eat their pussies, pull their hair, spank 'em, you're probably no stallion. That's just my impression."
"Can I please try to fix this fucking worthless clutch?" I say shortly.
Ron shrugs. "You can't fuck with metaphors, champ."
"Thanks for the tip. One time..."
"Hey, I´m gonna get a whore. You want one or not?"
After my silence Ron continues, "Fuck it. My back is killing me. I could use a blowjob. You gonna fix that thing or what?"
"I´ll do what I can to this plastic piece of shit."
Ron is already on the phone to his pimp.
"Yeah, make sure she doesn´t have a fat ass this time. OK?" he says loudly into the phone. "NO FATTIES...yeah, that´s what you said last time. Now I mean it. I want her young and with little titties and a tight ass."
He looks at me.
"Big tits just get in the way. Right, Oggy?...No, I don´t care what color her skin is. Just as long as she´s clean and has a tight pussy! I don't care if she's had one or two kids but not a whole litter. The last one you sent was so loose it was like fucking a plastic grocery bag. I...mother fucker!"
Ron looks at his phone and then at me.
"Man, can I use your phone? I just ran out of minutes. I put time on it the other day. I...Goddamn it! I bet that whore used it to call her man last night. The one who stole the used rubber off my cock! Son of a bitch!"
I hand Ron my cell phone and say, "You know what´s getting in the way? This fucking dashboard. Can I take it off?
Ron rips the cap off another beer as he dials his pimp.
"Do whatever you fucking want. You´re the monkey man. I...hey, it´s me...yeah...are we clear? No fatties with loose pussies!"
I cram myself under the steering wheel again. It´s uncomfortable as hell and my neck is going to be sore from holding it at an angle sideways. As I grab a greasy wrench and begin to dismantle the flimsy soybean fiber dashboard of Ron´s Ford Focus I whisper to myself, "I´m gonna be a stuffed monkey wrangler in a Mexican circus. I´m gonna raise sheep in Nepal. I´m gonna be a professional baseball player. I´m gonna ride a motorcycle across the continent. I´m gonna die in a Central American revolution. I´m gonna join a gypsy caravan in Africa. I´m gonna be an astronaut and fly a rocket ship to Mars. "
I asked this question both because you don´t get to say a sentence like that every day and also because I really needed to understand what Ron was saying, or if he was so stoned that he was no longer making sense.
"That´s what got me worried. I looked for it everywhere. She stole it off my cock while I was passed out."
Ignoring the horrible image now developing in my head I ask, "Why would she steal a used rubber?"
"To tell the police that I raped her. You know whores. That´s how I got run out of here five or six years ago. I started getting nasty looks from the taxi drivers and then the sheriff pulled me over in my RV and said, ´drive north.´I didn´t need to be told twice. But on the way north I started hearing this popping sound and I looked behind me and three taxis were chasing me and the motherfuckers were shooting at me with pistols. You know the taxi drivers are the unofficial posse in this country?"
I am under Ron´s dashboard examining his clutch cylinder that totally fell apart this morning. It is a 2003 Ford Focus and 80% of it is plastic. The remaining 20% is aluminum. I am so disgusted that I don´t even care Ron was at one point being chased by taxi drivers shooting at him. The funny thing is that he doesn´t care that I don´t care. I´m not even sure he cared at the time he was being shot at.
"I out ran them for a while but they had called ahead and it got real fucking messy in Loreto. I ended up hiding on top of my RV under a bridge. They had shovels with them. Turns out they thought I was raping girls in La Paz. Why would I rape girls when I can rent their pussies for so cheap? The word got around and they were going to kill my ass. But I got away. How is it looking under there?"
"I can´t believe this car was allowed to be driven. I can´t believe the engineer went to school first. A fucking child who owns a go kart would design a better car. At what point are resources so scarce that people just decide to refrain from manufacturing disposable shit?"
"That good huh? Can you fix it?"
"Give me some fucking credit."
I can fix it. It´s built like a car made of Styrofoam. Awful, but Ron is nevertheless comforted.
"Well, even if you can´t at least I got my shopping done. I got beer. I got a pound of pot. You want some?"
"No."
"You want a whore? I´m thinking about buying one. I´ll just get two. You can get a price break that way because they share the taxi."
"That´s all right."
"No? How is it going with your girlfriend?"
I´ve already explained that the girl he is talking about is not my girlfriend, but he calls her that because it is easier, I suppose, than saying "the girl you want to bang"
"We´ve got some bad chemistry." I say simply, though the truth as I interpret it is too complicated to discuss, involving not just chemistry but also emotional security and relationship roles and philosophy and geometry and language.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I say absurd shit, she takes it seriously and uses the opportunity to scold me and feel superior. Then I defend myself and we argue over nothing. I don't think I've told one joke she thought was funny."
"What did you say?"
"I said I was going to sell a kidney and join the Mexican circus. I said I wanted to manage the game where you throw a ball at a stuffed monkey. I was going to be the stuffed monkey wrangler. "
Ron crushed his cigarette and immediately lit another one.
"How much you going to get for the kidney?"
"See, if she had responded like that we probably would have ended up fucking," I say laughing. "God damn it! No. She has to take me seriously? Over something absurd like a stuffed monkey? She says one absurd thing after another..´I want to sniff glue, I drank tequila for two straight days, how does my hair look, I like that dress but not that one. I like shoes with straps...´bullshit. Absurd bimbo bullshit. Do I take her seriously? No. Do I define her by these random statements? No. But I say I want to go to Honduras and die in a revolution and she goes berserk. It´s like my fucking childhood all over again!"
"I thought you said you were gonna wrangle stuffed monkeys."
Sometimes Ron actually pays attention, which keeps me on my toes.
"Well I say a lot of absurd things. I can say whatever I want and sometimes I say absurd things, but people take me seriously. It isn´t fair. Did you see many cases of plastic explosives in my van? Or AK-47s? Or hand grenades? Or stuffed monkeys? I mean, if I told you...like...I was going to Russia to marry a woman I had never met what would you say?"
Without hesitation Ron says, "Don´t do it. DO NOT FUCKING DO IT! Those Russian mail order broads are completely insane. You´re better off adopting a pretty Russian girl and raising her to be your wife. You´d be guaranteed pussy then. Believe me, the adult women are beyond repair."
I wince as I don´t know how to respond to this response. I went from trying to prove a point by saying something insanely absurd to hearing something insanely absurd...but dead serious. This is a classic conversation with Ron.
"My point," I say, "is that I think out loud sometimes...and my thoughts don´t come out sounding completely normal. People just have to translate. Why is that hard? I don´t speak English. Only two people in my life have figured that out so far. My best friend...who is now dead. And an ex-girlfriend who now dates women. This girl here, she hasn´t figured that out yet. When I say I want to sell my kidney I just mean that I am bored with life...that I want her to make my life more interesting. That, in fact, wrangling stuffed monkeys in a Mexican circus is the philosophical equivalent of being a supreme court justice. See?"
"Jesus Christ, Oggy, you´ve got some admirable traits but sometimes you make no sense at all. Men are supposed to be the ones who speak directly. Don´t be obtuse. Tell her what you mean. Anyway, the way to impress a girl is not to say you would be happier tending a stuffed monkey...under any circumstances...with or without both your kidneys. I mean, think about it."
"Yeah, yeah. You think I haven´t thought about it? That´s all I do. Give me some fucking credit."
This is my new catch phrase. I look back under the clutch pedal, at a world I understand.
"How much does she charge?"
"She's not a hooker, dude."
"It sounds like she's a hooker to me. Maybe she's playing the long con."
"Well, then she's busting my balls for free."
Ron made some guttural sound. "You see, Oggy, I just like fucking regular young girls who want to make some money on the side. I don´t have anything to offer a girl except wisdom, experience and good conversation."
This is Ron's catch phrase and it never ceases to annoy me. He thinks it is funny because he's understating his qualities and sort of being self-pitying but I have yet to find a good response to it other than indifference. I reach under the clutch pedal and feel around the master cylinder. It is in two pieces but all the pieces are connected to a rod that can only be removed by unscrewing the whole pedal assembly. That´s going to suck.
Ron says, "Hey, I actually know a guy who will buy your kidney."
I throw the wrench down and yell, "I´m not selling my kidney! I´m not joining the circus. I´m not joining a revolution. I just like saying it. It sounds good to my ears. It just sounds good to say, ´I want to manage a stuffed monkey game in a Mexican Circus.´That sounds interesting...but I would hate it after five minutes. So I´m not going to do it. It´s absurd. I know it is absurd but saying it is how I cope with my crummy life. Alright? Give me some fucking credit. I like fixing cars and playing guitar. That´s probably what I´ll do for the rest of my life. But that doesn´t sound as good. So I don´t say it as much. If people would just pay attention to what I do and not what I say then there would be no problems."
Ron laughs. "I was just kidding. Jesus. I can see why you two like to argue. You say one thing and mean another. She says one thing and means another. You´re right about the bad chemistry. Although, usually women who argue are the best fucks."
I groan as I look back under the dashboard.
"Yeah? I argued with my last girlfriend all the time and she fucked like a rolled up carpet."
"Well, Oggy, you don't exactly strike me as a cocksmith.
"Eh?"
"I mean, you can probably entertain a girl, charm them, make 'em laugh, sing a few songs, fix their car's brake pads, but when it comes time to fuck 'em, eat their pussies, pull their hair, spank 'em, you're probably no stallion. That's just my impression."
"Can I please try to fix this fucking worthless clutch?" I say shortly.
Ron shrugs. "You can't fuck with metaphors, champ."
"Thanks for the tip. One time..."
"Hey, I´m gonna get a whore. You want one or not?"
After my silence Ron continues, "Fuck it. My back is killing me. I could use a blowjob. You gonna fix that thing or what?"
"I´ll do what I can to this plastic piece of shit."
Ron is already on the phone to his pimp.
"Yeah, make sure she doesn´t have a fat ass this time. OK?" he says loudly into the phone. "NO FATTIES...yeah, that´s what you said last time. Now I mean it. I want her young and with little titties and a tight ass."
He looks at me.
"Big tits just get in the way. Right, Oggy?...No, I don´t care what color her skin is. Just as long as she´s clean and has a tight pussy! I don't care if she's had one or two kids but not a whole litter. The last one you sent was so loose it was like fucking a plastic grocery bag. I...mother fucker!"
Ron looks at his phone and then at me.
"Man, can I use your phone? I just ran out of minutes. I put time on it the other day. I...Goddamn it! I bet that whore used it to call her man last night. The one who stole the used rubber off my cock! Son of a bitch!"
I hand Ron my cell phone and say, "You know what´s getting in the way? This fucking dashboard. Can I take it off?
Ron rips the cap off another beer as he dials his pimp.
"Do whatever you fucking want. You´re the monkey man. I...hey, it´s me...yeah...are we clear? No fatties with loose pussies!"
I cram myself under the steering wheel again. It´s uncomfortable as hell and my neck is going to be sore from holding it at an angle sideways. As I grab a greasy wrench and begin to dismantle the flimsy soybean fiber dashboard of Ron´s Ford Focus I whisper to myself, "I´m gonna be a stuffed monkey wrangler in a Mexican circus. I´m gonna raise sheep in Nepal. I´m gonna be a professional baseball player. I´m gonna ride a motorcycle across the continent. I´m gonna die in a Central American revolution. I´m gonna join a gypsy caravan in Africa. I´m gonna be an astronaut and fly a rocket ship to Mars. "
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Independence Day
The whithering heat continues to worsen here in La Paz. All non native plants die within a day of not being watered. It is like being in an oven. In fact, the sauna at my old gym was often cooler than it is in my bathroom here. Our clothes are constantly damp. There is almost no relief without going in the ocean or the swimming pool.
My computer is still working but not for long. The desert takes everything.
The previous living situation is behind me now. Needless to say Don is a colorful character if you read the stories below. I will remember him fondly, but "remember" is the optimal word because if you are with him for a few days in a row then you will descend into a place that feels very comfortable and yet is difficult to escape from. The rest of the world seems drab and boring. People talk about food and work. Don talked about nothing except sex and knife fights and drugs and jail...sometimes all appearing as characters in the same anecdote such as...
"this hooker I was fucking went out to buy some meth and came back with three Mexicans armed with knives. I broke one guy's arm with a club I carried and another one got his knife into me before the police showed up and took all my money and then put me in jail for a week. I went through withdrawls and almost died under the prison cot."
the whole time he is casually drinking and smoking and his voice never speeds up or slows down. He's unusual. I told him that the reason he is so unhappy is because he shouldn't be alive. He defied all the odds and survived his own life. Now he has to die naturally and it has made him depressed. After I tell him this Don looks at me and says, "I love fucking pretty young girls with tight wet pussies."
So I'm in a sober house now and we play pool and dominoes and this world of insanity and knife fights outside strip joints is like a foggy dream except the stain is never fully cleaned off my hands.
be careful what you ask for...
there were no fireworks this independence day. Not one. Just heat. I think life would have been different had I grown up in 1776. That's a war I could get behind. That's a side I could choose. Today, I am basically alone in my feeling that America is a repulsive juggernaut devouring the resources of the world so Hannah Montana can sell plastic backpacks. If there were an army that declared war against Hannah Montana then I would join. But it is ludicrous. Who would you kill? Walt Disney? Miley Cyrus? The Vietnamese slave workers making the Hannah Montana barbie dolls? There is no enemy and so no war and I am frustrated.
Everyone needs a side to be on and I'm still looking for mine. I guess that's my independence day message. Find a side and fight for it. Don't be neutral. This is not as easy as it sounds in today's flat world where the Japanese own parts of St. Louis and money is traded like spice and all roads lead to Walt Disney and Coca Cola. Who can you trust?
Did you know Coca Cola couldn't sell to Nazi Germany so they changed their name to Fanta in Europe and did it anyway. That's what I drink down here. Fanta soda: The drink of Jew Killers.
pick a side people. And fight the good fight. United we stand. Divided we fall.
My computer is still working but not for long. The desert takes everything.
The previous living situation is behind me now. Needless to say Don is a colorful character if you read the stories below. I will remember him fondly, but "remember" is the optimal word because if you are with him for a few days in a row then you will descend into a place that feels very comfortable and yet is difficult to escape from. The rest of the world seems drab and boring. People talk about food and work. Don talked about nothing except sex and knife fights and drugs and jail...sometimes all appearing as characters in the same anecdote such as...
"this hooker I was fucking went out to buy some meth and came back with three Mexicans armed with knives. I broke one guy's arm with a club I carried and another one got his knife into me before the police showed up and took all my money and then put me in jail for a week. I went through withdrawls and almost died under the prison cot."
the whole time he is casually drinking and smoking and his voice never speeds up or slows down. He's unusual. I told him that the reason he is so unhappy is because he shouldn't be alive. He defied all the odds and survived his own life. Now he has to die naturally and it has made him depressed. After I tell him this Don looks at me and says, "I love fucking pretty young girls with tight wet pussies."
Here’s some sample poetry from Don that furthered my need to leave that apartment.
After the narrator kills a guy in a stolen car…
“The blond she was crying
and starting to pray
I didn’t want her to suffer
I just wanted her to pay
Why you may ask
Why did she have to pay?
She could have been with me
But with him she did stay
Her scream cut short
By the shot that rang out
I opened both doors
And let the bodies fall out
As I cruise down the highway
I see a pretty young thing
Looks like she’s waving at me
She’s as misguided as could be
Standing tall and sexy
Vulnerable and all alone
What she will soon find out
She most surely will atone.”
Not exactly the stuff of romance and flowers. The language is pure jail vocabulary tinged with the bitterness at having your life served to you on a tin plate and being watched over like a child in a cage. It’s a horrible feeling. He hates the world and takes it out on this innocent couple, hopefully in a fantasy world. It says everything…and more.
He wanted me to make it into a song. A Song! To sing in public. No kidding? The next Johnny Cash.So I'm in a sober house now and we play pool and dominoes and this world of insanity and knife fights outside strip joints is like a foggy dream except the stain is never fully cleaned off my hands.
be careful what you ask for...
there were no fireworks this independence day. Not one. Just heat. I think life would have been different had I grown up in 1776. That's a war I could get behind. That's a side I could choose. Today, I am basically alone in my feeling that America is a repulsive juggernaut devouring the resources of the world so Hannah Montana can sell plastic backpacks. If there were an army that declared war against Hannah Montana then I would join. But it is ludicrous. Who would you kill? Walt Disney? Miley Cyrus? The Vietnamese slave workers making the Hannah Montana barbie dolls? There is no enemy and so no war and I am frustrated.
Everyone needs a side to be on and I'm still looking for mine. I guess that's my independence day message. Find a side and fight for it. Don't be neutral. This is not as easy as it sounds in today's flat world where the Japanese own parts of St. Louis and money is traded like spice and all roads lead to Walt Disney and Coca Cola. Who can you trust?
Did you know Coca Cola couldn't sell to Nazi Germany so they changed their name to Fanta in Europe and did it anyway. That's what I drink down here. Fanta soda: The drink of Jew Killers.
pick a side people. And fight the good fight. United we stand. Divided we fall.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Ass Pirate Looks at 70
“I finally got a good piece of ass last night,” said Ron from the doorway, where he was smoking a fat joint.
It’s like I’d been thinking of nothing but how much ass he had.
“She was real sexy, dancing, shaking her ass. I ate her pussy. We fucked around.”
“What was her name?”
I feel like an old lady asking this silly question.
“I forget. Maybe Crystal
“Ah.”
pillow talk
“I mean, licking a girl’s asshole?”
Don is talking about how dirty the girls are on the barely legal porn videos he is fond of watching. The girls are 18 years old and fisting each other for a camera. Big dildos. Strap on dildos, vibrators, tongues, fingers, hands. Everything is thrown at these girls and they look good getting dirty Licking each other’s pussies and assholes. How, Don is wondering, did they learn to do that in the few years since puberty? How did they get so fucking dirty so fucking fast.
Don throws back his head in ecstasy and says, “God damn it - I love fucking sexy young bitches! When I was in
Don and I are eating shrimp and fish tacos and chips in
After Don is through telling me about the Thai whores of a decade ago and the weekend of pure carnal exploration we get back to how to make a living in this world and stay happy. I pop a corn tortilla filled with shrimp into my mouth and say, “You ought to be in porn. You ought to just pay young chicks to fuck you on camera.”
“Why?” asks Don as though he knows the answer.
“Because it solves both cash flow and sex problems at once,” I say as though I have thought this out.
“How?”
“Because you fuck and you have a product to sell.”
“You can’t sell porn unless you are a huge company.”
“Naw, you are giving these guys too much credit. The amateur stuff sells and it has no production costs.”
“But that becomes your whole life.”
I consider pointing out that since I have met him he has talked of nothing but fucking young pretty girls. It has already become his whole life. You can cut it any way you want and this pie still comes out in the shape of sex. My suggestion of producing amateur porn is just a gesture of practicality in our shapeless conversation. Instead of diverting the conversation into a philosophical debate of what defines Don’s life I say generically, “But you get fucked and that’s good.”
“Well, I like to get to know a girl, talk to her. I’m a letch but I don’t like to feel I’m a letch.”
This sarcastic humor of Don’s is what I like most about him. He is unlike most letches who are past the point of no return and can not identify themselves as such. They are oblivious to their zippers being down or the ASS MASTERS LOLITA EDITION magazine laying openly on their dashboard. Don wants to set himself apart from the crowd by admitting that he knows what he is. He knows that conventional society rejects his worldview but he isn’t exactly apologetic when he says, “I like a regular girl who likes to make some money on the side.” He repeats this phrase as often as
“I like to fuck regular young girls with tight pussies,” he says as though he is defending his preference for Chopin over Satie. “I don’t care if they want my money. Everyone wants everyone else’s money. If they are nice to me then I’ll pay them for their time. I’ll pay them for being young and sucking my cock. Hey,” he says as he gestures at the tortilla chips, “You gotta eat some of these chips. I can’t eat them all.”
The ease with which Don says these lines is so casual that I’m slightly afraid I’ve become “one of those degenerates” with whom other degenerates confide because they radiate death and the black hole of infinity. It’s possible, but I’m completely sober, eating a taco and not even drinking soda pop because of its high sugar content. Am I a degenerate? Wait, don’t answer that question. The answer is that Don talks to every man like this. He has absolutely no tolerance for prudes…and he likes to talk about sex. So, my opinion or state of degeneration is irrelevant. I take a handful of chips, quietly ignoring their empty calorie content, and say, “Every girl has her price. Even the straight girls I have known, the Mormons, the real bible thumpers, have a price. I don’t care who you are. Hell, I’ve got a price.” I say as I squeeze lime juice onto a chip full of cheese and avocado. “It’s pretty high, but I’ve got a price at which I’ll do just about anything. Money is a drug. We’re trained to suck cock for money. You ever just offer a girl some money?” I eat the chip and look around at the tables for a reaction. I’m pretty sure a nearby couple understands every word we are saying.
“What do you think I’m talking about?” Don says.
This is a funny comment because it makes me realize I’m trying to imagine the scenario in which Don, a 66 year old man with white hair roots and a hunched back, is fucking four pretty 18 year old girls. The truth is that I have no idea how this would occur. As Don has pointed out a few times, “You’re too young to have to buy a whore.” Yes, I guess I am, but I’m not dumb enough to think I haven’t paid for sex in one way or another. It’s an age old exchange. While everyone wants to be that well adjusted couple who fucks “because they are in love” the other 98% of us are groping glory holes in the dark and throwing time and money at pussy.
Our pretty young waitress walks over and asks us, “Algo mas?”
Are we ready? She is probably asking this because one of the bilingual customers has complained that we are filthy gringos and should be evicted. Don is oblivious to everything but young women.
I say no, nothing more, and before she is out of reach Don says, “I like the way they shake their pussies. Hmmmm! You think she can fuck?” Before I can respond Don says, “It’s like Leaving Las Vegas, the movie, I bought fifty pairs of underwear when I came down here so I wouldn’t have to leave the bedroom. I could call the hookers and they would come to me and that’s it. Done! I die! You see, Marco, I like regular girls who like to make money on the side.”
I nod, as though I have heard this kind of talk all my life, which isn’t true. I think Don is the extreme example of a pleasure purpose we all share. We all want to be 65 years old and having the best sex of our lives with the most attractive, desirable partners we can imagine, sometimes four at once. Yes, it will come at a price, but that’s true of everyone…even rock stars so most of us realize this is a path of diminishing returns. Most of us see how quickly “paying pretty girls for sex” will turn into something demonic and destructive. Most of us realize that pouring money into young pussy is not sustainable. Most of us settle for cribbage and a yank mag by a muted television.
“A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man dies but one.” Says Don with cigarette smoke coming out of his mouth. “You have to confront your fears. I was afraid of heights my whole life (on account of falling off a mountain when I was young) so ten or fifteen years ago I decided I was going to fly an airplane. So I hired a pilot and we went up in the plane and I was so scared my arms were shaking.”
You do have to confront your fears. I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately. To live in fear is the worst condition. You have to be fearless to live in this world, fearless to succeed, fearless to perform, fearless of all consequences because some of those consequences are terrific. You can’t select which consequences you get. The trouble is that so much of our childhood is spent with fear as a major motivating factor. Be afraid of that hill, that house, that side of town, that skin color, that family, that way of thinking, that bottle of chemicals, that food, that sport. Fear will keep you alive, is the rationality, but what really happens is we grow up afraid of myths and phantoms. That hill isn’t very steep, that house isn’t full of gypsies, that side of town is where the good music is, that skin color is just darker than mine, that family is just poor, that way of thinking is liberating, that bottle of chemicals is for cleaning cement, that food is better with beer. These fears must be overcome, one by one. But what if they aren’t overcome? What if the fears are so well implanted by our parents that we still avoid that hill or that house or that food 25 years after we were told to? That is when you are in a world more troubled than Don’s. Yes, Don is on a treadmill chasing young girls and paying them for sex. Yes, he’s an estranged degenerate and a letch and fucked up living in
I could eat three more tacos but it is better to remain hungry. We leave the restaurant. I notice several customers giving us menacing looks. We walk into the
Don shows me a jagged scar on his hip.
“It’s not the drugs and alcohol that fucked me up,” he says as we gain speed in the direction of the sex shop, “It’s the shit that happened while I was fucked up on drugs and alcohol. Look! Holy shit! You see that sexy girl?”
Don brakes hard at a busy intersection to look at a pretty senorita in skin tight jeans and we are nearly demolished by a speeding bus.
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