I love New York; Abruptly Ends

Oh boy. I licked Pandora's box with that last entry, I love New York; Part I, and now she wants to open her legs and ejaculate drama upon my quiet, Glendalian, book-writing life. I'm just gonna go ahead and avoid that by gutting the story and skipping to the end. The last part's the best part anyway.

I care less and less what people think.

Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think that most writers have an easier time writing about life than living it. Nearly every writer I've met has been a watered-down version of the person they portray on the page, rarely if ever embracing the grand realizations they supposedly come to in their work. Now, the Rudius writers are the opposite. They read as caricatures, and act like them too-- Drunkasaurus Rex, specifically, who knows what verisimilitude means and also throws people through plate glass windows. Respectfully, the writers I've met write better than I could possibly hope to, but they don't live any of it, which shocks me, this visceral timidity, because I'm like the Rudius kids. I live harder than I say I do. I drink, feel, scream, cry and fuck a lot more than it seems. Yes, I'm even crazier than I seem.

My biggest struggle is to not censor myself.

It's a major problem. I'm never quite sure how far to go with the writing, how much I can say, what people will think of me, etc. I always try to be a lady. That seems like a silly thing to try and do, considering I want to have a cock and my mother's best attempts at making me ladylike miserably failed, but the feeling that I should still try and act proper lingers. Now, speaking frankly about the night your girlfriend fisted your other girlfriend to hamburger is not ladylike. Its fun to talk about (and witness), but if you bring it up at the dinner table, you're not going to win any awards for classiness.

So I water down my writing, not my living. But I suppose I care less and less what people think. Maybe I started my blogging career innocently like Lindsay Lohan, all round and freckled in the mirror of the Delano Bungalo 12 in a too-short sparkled sheath, snickering till ruddy when Wilmer ceases grooming long enough to look over and say, "You know what you should wear under that? Nothing!," replying, "That's so naughty! I can't do that!" And then one day, years later, my snatch is everywhere. Oh well.

I really like nothing better than sucking a cock. Honestly. I can't think of a more enjoyable activity. I have a NOW card, and I took womens' studies classes. I know feminism teaches us cock sucking is degrading, and religion teaches us its sinful, but I'll be damned if there's a better comfort food. I could suck cock morning noon and night. I find it incredibly empowering and erotic to the point that the mere writing of this paragraph and the imagery it evokes may send me to the bathroom of this cafe to rub one out.

"If you date me, you will prune."

I am saying this in a bar in Midtown with my friend Miller and my lawyer. It is too early in the evening--and perhaps the wrong place--to have such conversations, and I am having it loudly. Lawyer's face is red. He is laughing, gripping the edge of the bar a little too firmly, so much so that his knuckles are whitening. He's doing that I'm-too-normal-to-hang-out-with-artists-oh-God-what-if-they-rub-off-on-me-and-everyone-finds-out? thing. Miller seems to think this is hilarious, but Miller's a little more gregarious, for it was naught but a few hours prior we were closing down some lower east side bar, ten empty shot glasses of Tequila before us, trying drunkenly and as it turns out inconvincingly to talk a crack dealer named Nas into writing a blog about his exploits.

"It's not love till you swallow a good load, is it?" I asked. Smiling. A lot

"Oh...kay..." His eyes are bugging.

"Hee hee."

I look around, and lots of people are staring at me with their shifty eyes. I giggle and say, "Wanna hear a good story?"

"No."

"So, anyway. I have this tendency, you know. I tend to date a certain type of man..."

"Lunatics?"

"No! Not necessarily lunatics. I'm mean, some are. Some are fixer-uppers, and some are more together. Most hate their moms, but there's really only one thing they all have in common besides the fact that they'll all treat me bad and leave me heartbroken. There's really only one thing they have in common."

"I'm afraid to ask what that thing is."

"Well...I sort of figured it out after I dated Tucker, and got this mad craving for a nice guy, like now, and started fucking one regularly. I had to switch it up just to see what was so great about all the bad guys."

"Was the nice guy better?"

"In some ways, yeah. I mean, I wasn't as naturally attracted to him as I was to the guys I'd dated prior, and I didn't understand why until I went down on him."

"Shhhhh..."

"I pulled his pants down...where were we? I think we were in an alley or something...I'm such a whore...and I pulled his pants down and put his cock in my mouth, and it was a normal sized cock, which was unexpected. Cock size has little to do with niceness. You always think there's going to be a correlation, but nope. There isn't."

"And you can tell by this very scientific experiment you've conducted."

"Yep. Just listen. So...I was sucking his cock, and I went to reach for his balls to lick them or something, because I can't put balls in my mouth...it's too small, or at least that's what I thought, till--POP--they go right in. I was sort of shocked at how small they were. I'd seen lots of cocks and balls in my life, being addicted to porn for years and all, but I'd never actually been able to fit a pair of balls in my mouth. Balls were too big."

"I can't believe you're talking about this."

"And then it dawned on me! Balls aren't too big. The guys I'm attracted too have huge balls. I mean...have you ever seen Tucker walk down the street? He's fucking bowlegged."

"Oh my god, stop."

"It made so much sense. All the guys I date are aggressive. An excess of testosterone, maybe? I don't know. All I know is that if I fuck a nice guy, which I'm trying to do more often, since I hope to become more attracted to them, he has normal-sized penis to ball proportion. It doesn't look right to me, but upon further inspection of scientific manuals, it is indeed normal. If I fuck an aggressive guy I'm all into, his nuts are enormous. Every time. I should write a paper on it."

Miller thinks I'm genius. I just know it. She is now considering the cock and ball proportions of her past with great fervor.

"So, not too long ago, I start dating this nice guy. He was totally sensitive, and I was really excited about the fact that he could be sweet and love his mother but still attractive to me. I mean, I really turned a corner."

"Tucker's bowlegged?"

"Oh yeah. He's got fucking cueballs in his pants. So, anyway, I'm dating the nice guy, and we're just talking on the phone for a long time, getting to know each other. And I'm so excited because he's nice, and he's not going to be drama, but I still want to fuck the shit out of him."

"Yeah?"

"And we plan to meet, and I show up, and we're fucking almost immediately. It's kind of hot, and this is good. So, I pull down his pants all excited, cause I love to suck cock, and I'm totally expecting he won't be packing much down there. Not penis-wise, because there's no correlation between cock size and niceness, but ball size, naturally."

Miller shakes her head; she's totally into it, as is the cute chickie and circle of three yuppies behind Lawyer, though Lawyer gave up after having to think of Tucker's balls. He looks as if he may puke.

I pause for dramatic affect.

"And the pants come down...nice penis. Good shape. Totally suckable and fuckable. Balls..."

"Yeah?"

"ENORMOUS!"

"NO!"

"HE HAD THE BIGGEST BALLS I'VE EVER SEEN."

"NO! Oh no!"

"I know. It was tragic. Naturally it didn't work out and I got all heartbroken, but oh well. It was a nice lesson: the Ballers are out there, and they're traveling incognito. Do a pants check before you get all emotional about 'em."

We talk about many inappropriate things until Lawyer--who was quite the trooper--has to go home to his lady friend. Miller and I have another wild night, and in the morning, Tucker waddles over to my carcass as it lies sleeping on his living room couch, pokes it in the ribs and asks, "Bunny, what did you do last night? You are naughty."

I wake and growl, "It was fun. I love New York. I want to move here."

"Okay. What's that big stain on your stomach?"

I pick my head up and inspect my tummy. "Oh. I used my dress to wipe up my drink."

Comments

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