Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless

I don’t know how you cunts do it.

In a way, you’re my life’s work, a puzzle I was built to ponder. I’ve spent years listening to you and analyzing your conflicted, constricted, and convoluted thoughts; you’re all such sad little knots, awaiting an Alexander to untangle you with the edge of a blade. I learn something new every time one of you comes apart for me.

But I’ll never truly, viscerally understand how you manage it, how you turn the sundering of your mystery and the exposition of your shame into abject, sobbing need. I suspect the answers will forever elude me.

Fortunately, a wet hole is its own special solace.

I want you to cry.

Not just a little, nor merely a lot; I want it to be always, and forever. I want you to weep rivers that mark your cheeks with their sediment, carving your anxieties into the soft terrain of your skin. I want your tears to impinge on every moment of your life, every aspect of your existence, until they taint even your joy, and you can no longer tell loss from love. I want you to drown in your weakness while I skip pebbles across the glassy surface of your saline grave.

You can do it for me, if you really try.

I believe in you.

Dear Bedtime

Someone recently asked if I thought she should cheat on her age-appropriate boyfriend with her much-older college professor. I decided to answer her publicly for the edification of all.

Dear Aspiring Tramp:

I seldom give advice, and when I do, it should always be assumed to come with a disclaimer indicating that I’m not an authority on jack-shit. You silly things know I get off on playing with your emotions… what on earth makes you think my input is going to lead to anything more than a series of very arousing mistakes?

With that said, I hope you bang the professor. What’s the point of having a boyfriend, if not to make sex hotter with the guys you fuck behind his back? Chances are, your cunt is craving the guilt as much as the academic cock. And I suspect you already know that, since you’re asking the opinIon of someone who gets off on the guilty secrets of misbehaving girls.

Just imagine how amazing it will feel! Not simply the betrayal of a petty trust –he’s not your husband, after all– but all of it, all the possible repercussions. I mean, eventually, your whoreish proclivities will end the relationship… you’ll get caught, if only because you want to. What happens then? Your boy goes off jaded and embittered, a little wiser, a little more cruel. It’s like you’re giving a special sort of gift to the next girl who comes into his life; he’ll take the things you’ve taught him about wayward women and apply them to her: with any luck, he’ll make that little bitch suffer for your sins.

In fact, if you want things to be perfect as you degrade yourself with your ethically flexible authority figure, I have a suggestion. While that learned old man dick is sawing in and out of your thirsty, amoral holes, just picture your boy choking the shit out of his next sweetheart and calling her a faithless slut. It’s not like she won’t have it coming.

I mean, you already know he has wretched taste in women!

Where do you go when I fuck you?

Sometimes I want to follow you there and take it from you, colonize it as I have every other aspect of your existence. You should know that you don’t deserve a refuge I cannot despoil, a private hell I cannot infest; the arid steppes of your imagination are mine, by the right of the conqueror over the conquered.

But mostly, I really don’t mind that you’re absent. Your body is more beautiful when it isn’t animated by your awkwardness and insecurity, leaving it capable of actually pleasing a man. In fact, I’ve found that your least attractive feature is your self; watching it leave your eyes as I sink inside you is the best part of knowing you.

Why must a woman be modest to be respected?

An excellent question. Why is modesty so revered? I maintain that a modest girl should have the same opportunity to be disrespected as anyone else.

Do you people have any idea how many creepy, evil-minded, clit-obsessed little perverts are out there right now, shrouded head-to-toe in eight layers of black-on-black fabric that they’ll tell you is fashion, but is really just a wall of goth clichés they’ve constructed to obscure the public view of their sickness?

Do you not get that there are countless desperate, sex-addled, cum-starved, and sinful daughters of God among us, rubbing and sweating away in the shameful dark, who seldom allow their bodies to see the light of day simply because they’re so fucking broken they’ll even let dead men in books control their lives?

Is it possible not to notice how much frustration, fear, and far-fetched fantasy is building up behind the eyes of so many of those hard-working little achievers, the neighborhood good girls who keep their grades up, skirts down, knees together, and career options open, who never really learn to trust anyone, and thus spend their adult lives growing out while rotting within, until the weight of the living upon the dead brings everything crashing down?

They’re out there, if you know how to look. All of them and more, so normal and demure, each telling the world the lies it needs to hear so it will leave her to cry in peace. They are pathetic, ravenous little creatures who cannot be sated until they’ve been fed upon, but you’ll overlook them every time if you’re fooled by their camouflage.

So always remember: the amount of skin a woman shows you doesn’t make her a whore.

It’s what’s inside that counts.