My approach to women these days is stark. There is no spectrum. The nature of the relationship may vary, but the categories are simple: fuckable/not fuckable.
Female writers fall into the first. The attraction drives me crazy.
It’s been too sunny around here.
My approach to women these days is stark. There is no spectrum. The nature of the relationship may vary, but the categories are simple: fuckable/not fuckable.
Female writers fall into the first. The attraction drives me crazy.
It’s been too sunny around here.
Originally Posted by Bird
Learn how to love.
I scoffed at this because it meant nothing coming from Bird, but I had a good talk with someone yesterday and it cleared my head a bit re: love.
I’d stopped expressing my bitterness (read: writing) a while back. I cut myself off from some people who’d been supportive and willing to listen to me rant about how fucked up my situation had become. Since then I’d become intensely focused on keeping shit to myself and getting pussy. It was satisfying. And not just any pussy, but women who were unhappy. I get off on it. The opposite–abject happiness–is disgusting to me, because I’ve given up on it myself and sure as hell don’t want to be reminded of it. There are joyful moments and laughs, of course, but that sort of unabashed glee that people feel when they’re in a good situation… it’s bullshit to me. It’s waiting to be torn apart and laid bare in gleaming heaps of emotional flesh.
Which all leads to this love thing. This talk I had with an older gentleman was in fact about what I wrote above. Love is hopeless, pain is inevitable, don’t love the ones who are in love with love, etc.
Just get pussy, he told me. You’re young, man. Just get laid and enjoy yourself.
That’s the plan, I told him. I asked him if he’d ever married. He must have been in his fifties.
Fuck no, he said. Fuck no. Fuckin’ woman’d just take it all from me. My youth, my money, my time, my love. Rather share it on my terms.
But that’s what they get anyway, isn’t it? I asked. Money, time, attention. Whether it’s an hour or fifty years.
Yea, he said, but a girl can’t break your heart when you met her an hour before.
A good one could.
He turned inward then and said, You don’t know shit.
That’s the worst part, I think. Feeling older, wiser, and still being taken in. Not taken in by pretty eyes or a nice ass, but by my own mind. My own expectations and fears and desires. Realizing–no, remembering–that fuck it all, it’s still on me. In spite of unforgiveable actions others in my life decide to follow, the choices to be bitter or love or forgive or even become a drunk whoremonger remain on my shoulders.
Originally Posted by Bird
Learn how to love.
I scoffed at this because it meant nothing coming from Bird, but I had a good talk with someone yesterday and it cleared my head a bit re: love.
I’d stopped expressing my bitterness (read: writing) a while back. I cut myself off from some people who’d been supportive and willing to listen to me rant about how fucked up my situation had become. Since then I’d become intensely focused on keeping shit to myself and getting pussy. It was satisfying. And not just any pussy, but women who were unhappy. I get off on it. The opposite–abject happiness–is disgusting to me, because I’ve given up on it myself and sure as hell don’t want to be reminded of it. There are joyful moments and laughs, of course, but that sort of unabashed glee that people feel when they’re in a good situation… it’s bullshit to me. It’s waiting to be torn apart and laid bare in gleaming heaps of emotional flesh.
Which all leads to this love thing. This talk I had with an older gentleman was in fact about what I wrote above. Love is hopeless, pain is inevitable, don’t love the ones who are in love with love, etc.
Just get pussy, he told me. You’re young, man. Just get laid and enjoy yourself.
That’s the plan, I told him. I asked him if he’d ever married. He must have been in his fifties.
Fuck no, he said. Fuck no. Fuckin’ woman’d just take it all from me. My youth, my money, my time, my love. Rather share it on my terms.
But that’s what they get anyway, isn’t it? I asked. Money, time, attention. Whether it’s an hour or fifty years.
Yea, he said, but a girl can’t break your heart when you met her an hour before.
A good one could.
He turned inward then and said, You don’t know shit.
That’s the worst part, I think. Feeling older, wiser, and still being taken in. Not taken in by pretty eyes or a nice ass, but by my own mind. My own expectations and fears and desires. Realizing–no, remembering–that fuck it all, it’s still on me. In spite of unforgiveable actions others in my life decide to follow, the choices to be bitter or love or forgive or even become a drunk whoremonger remain on my shoulders.
There’s a fluid wave in a woman’s walk when she wears the right type of jeans and wedges. One foot in front of the other. The fabric stretches just below the buttock. Her legs extend to a point of perfection. A straight line from hip to toe. Time slows in these moments. It becomes a crawl through a dream. A breakdown of the nature of her movement. Her presence. The effect on the environment around her. One front, the other foot. Captured as if in a bubble.
I bless my soul when I see a fine-looking woman walk across my bow. Forehead to chest, left shoulder to right shoulder. La bendicion por cada pensamiento.
There’s a fluid wave in a woman’s walk when she wears the right type of jeans and wedges. One foot in front of the other. The fabric stretches just below the buttock. Her legs extend to a point of perfection. A straight line from hip to toe. Time slows in these moments. It becomes a crawl through a dream. A breakdown of the nature of her movement. Her presence. The effect on the environment around her. One front, the other foot. Captured as if in a bubble.
I bless my soul when I see a fine-looking woman walk across my bow. Forehead to chest, left shoulder to right shoulder. La bendicion por cada pensamiento.
Pondering you, I think only of what I’m certain was the most wonderful cunt. The kind I will have spent hours enjoying to my mouth’s—and cock’s—delight. Would be nice to think of you with a soft and inviting bush, however. I can’t shake the thought of a clean shaven body and all the misguided effort it speaks of. Actions speak louder, do they not?
This is all the impetus behind every moment I spend with this girl whose cunt is sweet but wholly familiar after these many hours between her thighs. She doesn’t know how to talk dirty either. Lots of “baby” and “oh God, oh God.” Sure I’m making fun. Hey—D, if you read this, well, go to sleep, but remember that line I whispered? We’re beginning to taste like ash in each other’s mouths. It’s been on the tip of my tongue. No matter, of course. You swallow like I’m going to leave if you don’t. It’s a wonder I found you at all. Are you listening?
All this thought and nothing constructive learned other than ways to get you/you off. There is no lesson to speak of, except perhaps to appreciate one’s physical senses for more than the ability to see and type. Redundantly: For now life is defined by the desire for sex and the fact that women—certain women—are as available to me as rain drops from the sky.
Pondering you, I think only of what I’m certain was the most wonderful cunt. The kind I will have spent hours enjoying to my mouth’s—and cock’s—delight. Would be nice to think of you with a soft and inviting bush, however. I can’t shake the thought of a clean shaven body and all the misguided effort it speaks of. Actions speak louder, do they not?
This is all the impetus behind every moment I spend with this girl whose cunt is sweet but wholly familiar after these many hours between her thighs. She doesn’t know how to talk dirty either. Lots of “baby” and “oh God, oh God.” Sure I’m making fun. Hey—D, if you read this, well, go to sleep, but remember that line I whispered? We’re beginning to taste like ash in each other’s mouths. It’s been on the tip of my tongue. No matter, of course. You swallow like I’m going to leave if you don’t. It’s a wonder I found you at all. Are you listening?
All this thought and nothing constructive learned other than ways to get you/you off. There is no lesson to speak of, except perhaps to appreciate one’s physical senses for more than the ability to see and type. Redundantly: For now life is defined by the desire for sex and the fact that women—certain women—are as available to me as rain drops from the sky.
She has these chairs that look dusty as fuck and I tell her, “These are filthy,” to which she replies, “They’re my favorite chairs,” after which I propose buying new chairs and receive an eye stabbing the likes of which I haven’t received from a woman in a long, long time. I join her on the mattress with the dip in the middle and apologize for making fun of her favorite chairs. I tell her to lie down with me for a while. We don’t say much else, but secretly I think of scenarios to get her to dump them or clean them because, Christ, they are some really fuckin’ dirty chairs.
She has these chairs that look dusty as fuck and I tell her, “These are filthy,” to which she replies, “They’re my favorite chairs,” after which I propose buying new chairs and receive an eye stabbing the likes of which I haven’t received from a woman in a long, long time. I join her on the mattress with the dip in the middle and apologize for making fun of her favorite chairs. I tell her to lie down with me for a while. We don’t say much else, but secretly I think of scenarios to get her to dump them or clean them because, Christ, they are some really fuckin’ dirty chairs.