I am married, for all intents and purposes,
and have been for 10 years. I fuck
twice a day, sometimes three times but I am not satisfied. I prolong the act for a half-hour, for an hour
sometimes and yet I cannot get enough. Beautiful
women are an agony for me. And yet,
I cannot rape, I can't be satisfied with prostitution. I need the love of an honest woman. And even the Sultan can't get that. But at least he gets the appearance of it.
The Iranian woman smiled and I turned
away again. I hated myself. She looked so different! Her grape-golden skin was bleached marble white,
and her hair was done in little curly strands that made her look like Medusa.
A golden bracelet inlaid with gems dangled from her arm and yet, as
if to set off this new sepulchral look, she was wearing a chaste white blouse
and blue jeans. It suddenly seemed clear to me: I can't afford
a woman like her.
Is life that simple?
The Mexican girl was wearing a gold
wedding band this morning! She still
vibrates to me as no one else but
But the Mexican girl.
It implies that I am completely without subtlety.
Even a slight indication that I
I'll get to observe my reaction to
losing 5,10, 15(?) thousand dollars over one weekend,
or maybe making a few thousand if I am lucky.
I seem to be indifferent to that. Probably
because it just represents comfort in my old age, and it is just a game, a
game at which I haven't lost disastrously since the British Bond incident.
It will hurt badly if I lose more than 10 thousand, of course.
That is more than I make for an entire quarter at State, teaching two
classes, and so it still feels like a large loss to me.
If I make 2 or 3 thousand I will be ecstatic - for a few minutes -
well, actually for a long time, because it means I didn't lose anything. But I am prepared to have lost $5000 - in one
day (!) for one impulsive and stupid move.
I, at least, continue to learn. It
was an ill-advised gamble. I deserve
to lose - should lose. I must learn
the lesson that making money in the markets is deadly serious business.
Any insights that go beyond a few weeks are dangerous delusions in
that domain. Well, I'll find out tomorrow.
Who was it that said, "Beautify
yourself with masculine beauty. In that way you will vanquish Cunt?"
Don't wail to me like a dog howling
outside the backyard of some bitch in heat.
Be a man. Find an honest man's
pleasure and face up to your mistakes and stupidity like a man. Don't wail at the walls of your room and gnash
your teeth like a Rabbi. Go find out
how much you lost, and accept that you acted like a fool. If you won, don't take it as a good Omen. I'm afraid we all know that Whirl is King, and
as Aristophanes has taught us: always (!) humor! If you forget humor, then I have nothing more
to say to you. By the way, if you win,
PLEASE don't take that as a sign of your good judgement. You acted like a fool and you know it.
Well, I did it. (And I love to watch my self take credit, reflexively,
spontaneously.) But I did nothing
intelligent. I had a stroke of luck.
$4200 for one telephone call.
That's more than I'm going to make all Winter Quarter for teaching
2 classes at State. It’s enough to make a gambler out of anyone.
All I have to make is 7% on the money for the next 5 months, and I
will have a total profit, for the fiscal year April 15 to April 15, of $111,000.
(Before taxes of course) At
least three quarters of it is short-term gain.
$499,818.
I've almost made the half million mark.
And I'm going to quit while I'm ahead.
The markets are far too unstable.
I haven't touched a penny of the profit
in five years. Not since she gave me
the $10,000 that she accused me of squandering on a used car and a tip to
Suddenly the Mexican girl in the back
row is married. Definitively. Her ring is there again. And she shows hardly any interest. NO interest.
And suddenly she is REALLY ugly. Her
skin looks like uncooked dough.
There is, basically, just a network
of fantasy that spreads out over society, and many half-serious plans that
occasionally meet each other. I am
tired of sex and love. I am incapable
of inspiring love anyway. Certain women
see me as available, "a good catch," but I am essentially unappealing
to women. So why do I care? It isn't vanity. I'm sure that as soon as I try to forget them,
I will begin to notice them looking at me again with bedroom eyes. But they don't want me. They want a house and kids - with the option
of throwing me out if I don't do my share to keep the house tidy.
Why am I telling you this? Certainly this couldn't be Literature. Nothing rhymes, the characters aren't clear,
there's virtually no action. Everyone
is watching television and no one's reading anymore anyway and the professors
have determined the precise nature of Literature.
It's sophomoric: there's too much her here Herr Professor. So what is the point? To demonstrate to myself that my life is a failure
by doing something that is obviously botched?
Who knows? Does it really matter?
The only image left is the line of
the jeans. It becomes full at the thigh
where it joins the hip, and on the inside, it forms a kind of crease where
it meets the line of her cunt. Why
is it that Anglo-Saxon word is still crude sounding, and the
Latin vulva/vagina/clitoris words are so clinical sounding? Another image: her pouting lips, blood engorged
face, and wide-eyed vixen stare, forms itself in my mind's eye, and then like
a door slammed shut by the wind, I see her taught, blood-drained inward looking
face, nervous, near the point of panic. For two hours I coax her back to herself, away
from the Mullahs.
She invited me to her apartment!
We started out by talking about
The Indian student wants to see me
next Wednesday. They are after me. Even though it seems like a sure thing with
Wai Shiow, Maria is like a steaming
jungle flower. She just sat in class
and stared at me with her bedroom eyes. They
got more and more intense, until it seemed that she was a bitch in heat, that
her vagina was a yawning gulf, that she was a siren
song, a mermaid with seaweed arms, hypnotic, caressing, enticing. After class she came to my desk and said, "I
have problems. Can I come to se you
at
- shit I was
just interrupted by a knock on the sliding glass doors. It was my brother in the back yard. He wants to start his workout. I am aching to finish this off in bed. Well, discipline calls. To work - out.
The greasy little Indian cunt showed
up in class today. But she didn't come
to, (or in,) my office. Hatred isn't
my feeling. It is a kind of happy scorn.
A kind of longing impossibility.
A 14 year old, with long blond curls tumbling over tanned shoulders,
pulling her summer dress up over her belly, revealing her Grassy Knoll and
glaring defiantly at me. Why
do these cunts present themselves to me like monkeys in heat? And why does it raise my cock in such a stiff
and guileless salute? The truth is
simple: she is a whore and is used to getting her trinkets with a wet cunt.
I too would give her a B for a piece of ass.
Why not an A? Because she is too hypocritical to admit that
she would exchange ass for grades. If
I gave her a B, she could save her self-respect, convincing herself that,
in fact she really DESERVED a B, and that if she had been a WHORE, well then, she would have
fucked for an A. The fact is that she
is too cowardly to try it, not too virtuous.
And why am I so taken by their fantasies,
so vulnerable to their vulvatic vicissitudes?
I, at 37 am more lusty by far than I was at twenty. I can maintain an erection for hours and come
three or four times a day. But Judy
and Andy are spending the summer in
I haven't seen my beautiful and sad
Iranian for a week and I find myself lurking in her usual haunts, disappointed
when she isn't there. It is as if Cock is disappointed in me, I who am simply
a vehicle, a robot appointed with a modicum of intelligence and sturdy legs,
for transporting Cock around to various emanations of estrogen. Cock has an uncanny ability to sniff out these
hot houses of feminine lust and torment me with fantasies that probably torment
them as well. We may be unhinged by
our overly covetous genital organs.
I imagine that her Cunt was so wounded
by my prideful icy stare - I didn't recognize her right off - that it scorched
her heart and sent her ovaries into a rush of activity that has flooded that
imperious organ with a tide of blood, spewing forth the useless egg with cramps
of hatred for my proud, icy American face, and longing for a little Iranian
Shah to fuck it into submission. But
nightmares of dead soldiers and butt fucking boys crowd out her longing and
plunge her deeper into a psychic paroxysm of estrogen induced agony.
But that insistent pussy tells her through it all, whispers softly
into her coward's ear: "Get that man's prick at all costs; let not hail,
nor sleet, nor small creeping creature, nor pard, nor raging storm keep that man's prick from my door."
And she listens and yet hates to hear a Cunt's
command. But Cunt is now a raging wound, a swirling black
mane, matted with blood, growing thick onto her legs and climbing outrageously
to her belly button. She hates Cunt,
now, because it masters her and she hates me because IT has issued an all
points bulletin for my Cock. And that
fucking organ of mine is like a bitch in heat climbing the walls of my jeans
whenever her black bush gets within smelling distance. I feel like a man pursued. If only I could stand against some wall and
beat it into submission. But it rises,
ever anew, and always for that imperious thing whose caretaker is like the
wind, now breeze then hurricane, now gust, then tornado, Santa Anna, Mistral,
untamable, unknowable, unapproachable, impossible, unavoidable.
Stephanie
walked right past me pretending not to see me.
Her face was a stone. So I took
pleasure in ignoring her for the first hour.
During the break she put her head on her desk, and I resisted asking
her if she was all right. I noticed that her purse was placed right against
her crotch, as if barring the fiery gates. I was so much in control that I found myself
wondering if I would end up seducing her anyway, and decided that she wasn't
worth noticing and that she is just another would be whore. I am certainly
indifferent to her. Now I only want
to make love to a woman that I despise. Wai Shiow? Well, I am simply curious. I want to see if fucking another woman will
change me in any way. The problem is
that I like her a great deal also. I
like her very much. But I sense that
she is incapable of really understanding love, that Love is a Western flower
for her. But I am still curious. The rash turned out to be just overuse. It is healing nicely. She wants me to go to the French Embassy to
help her get a VISA. She has planned
a trip to
Stephanie is an arrogant little bitch.
I've never liked women like her. They
are inconstant, selfish whores. But
they seem to have all of the fire of the Universe in their pants.
The ugly ones just don't seem to have it.
They're usually prudes.
Why do I put all of life's problems
there, on sex? It is clearly such a
trivial thing. Food,
water, shelter, are so much more important than sex.
Why don't I put on the noble hair shirt
of Communism? OR, more to the point,
why don't I buy a 12 gauge shotgun, keep it loaded and wait for the right
moment?
The greasy little Indian cunt showed
up in class today. But she didn't come
to, (or in,) my office. Hatred isn't
my feeling. It is a kind of happy scorn.
A kind of longing impossibility.
A 14 year old, with long blond curls tumbling over tanned shoulders,
pulling her summer dress up over her belly, revealing her Grassy Knoll and
glaring defiantly at me. Why
do these cunts present themselves to me like monkeys in heat? And why does it raise my cock in such a stiff
and guileless salute? The truth is
simple: she is a whore and is used to getting her trinkets with a wet cunt.
I too would give her a B for a piece of ass.
Why not an A? Because she is too hypocritical to admit that
she would exchange ass for grades. If
I gave her a B, she could save her self-respect, convincing herself that,
in fact she really DESERVED a B, and that if she had been a WHORE, well then, she would have
fucked for an A. The fact is that she
is too cowardly to try it, not too virtuous.
And why am I so taken by their fantasies,
so vulnerable to their vulvatic vicissitudes?
I, at 37 am more lusty by far than I was at twenty. I can maintain an erection for hours and come
three or four times a day. But Judy
and Andy are spending the summer in
I haven't seen my beautiful and sad
Iranian for a week and I find myself lurking in her usual haunts, disappointed
when she isn't there. It is as if Cock is disappointed in me, I who am simply
a vehicle, a robot appointed with a modicum of intelligence and sturdy legs,
for transporting Cock around to various emanations of estrogen. Cock has an uncanny ability to sniff out these
hot houses of feminine lust and torment me with fantasies that probably torment
them as well. We may be unhinged by
our overly covetous genital organs.
I imagine that her Cunt was so wounded
by my prideful icy stare - I didn't recognize her right off - that it scorched
her heart and sent her ovaries into a rush of activity that has flooded that
imperious organ with a tide of blood, spewing forth the useless egg with cramps
of hatred for my proud, icy American face, and longing for a little Iranian
Shah to fuck it into submission. But
nightmares of dead soldiers and butt fucking boys crowd out her longing and
plunge her deeper into a psychic paroxysm of estrogen induced agony.
But that insistent pussy tells her through it all, whispers softly
into her coward's ear: "Get that man's prick at all costs; let not hail,
nor sleet, nor small creeping creature, nor pard, nor raging storm keep that man's prick from my door."
And she listens and yet hates to hear a Cunt's
command. But Cunt is now a raging wound, a swirling black
mane, matted with blood, growing thick onto her legs and climbing outrageously
to her belly button. She hates Cunt,
now, because it masters her and she hates me because IT has issued an all
points bulletin for my Cock. And that
fucking organ of mine is like a bitch in heat climbing the walls of my jeans
whenever her black bush gets within smelling distance. I feel like a man pursued. If only I could stand against some wall and
beat it into submission. But it rises,
ever anew, and always for that imperious thing whose caretaker is like the
wind, now breeze then hurricane, now gust, then tornado, Santa Anna, Mistral,
untamable, unknowable, unapproachable, impossible, unavoidable.
Well, I fucked her! I am amazed myself. At first, I was afraid I wouldn't get an erection.
It finally got hard and then I came almost right away.
I thought it was the anxiety of betraying Judy.
The bitch grabbed my face just as I was coming, and watched in triumph. Fucking her teacher no doubt.
She, on top.
Then she had the audacity to pretend to come about 30 seconds later.
Well, she either did come, or did a fair imitation. Afterwards, we took a shower and she washed
my back, Chinese style. After that,
we spent a lot of time hugging and kissing each other and talking. We said that we love each other. But I know she is lying. She just likes me and thinks I would be a marvelous
catch. She is very poor - lives on
about 200 dollars a month. I didn't
say anything about Judy except that I am "in between relationships,"
"that I still see her occasionally."
It feels true. She has been
gone for almost two months.
Without clothes, she seemed very skinny,
and I must admit, unappetizing. Although,
and I have to admit it, her cunt smelled like Chinese food.
I know it sounds ridiculous, but it did.
I couldn't hide from myself that she was no longer beautiful and that
whatever I thought I loved wasn't there anymore.
She is still very pretty and I like her a great deal, but the vanity
of it all crashed in on me. I rediscover banal truths like a man reinventing
the wheel: arduously.
But she is an extraordinary woman.
Beautiful and intelligent and she will make some God-blessed, God-fearing
man an extraordinary wife. Atheist though she be. Words fail.