The Pussy and the Back Pube.
In the bathroom of my Dad’s house I stand in a towel staring into the mirror. Fresh from the shower I fixate my eyes on a renegade hair that has recently decided to sprout from a pore on my back.
This deeply perplexes me as I am a hairless creature by nature. It sucks. I hate being hairless. I have spent many a night drowning my kidneys in Jack Daniels with the hope that burly man hair would explode all over my chest and chin. But for every empty bottle I toss into the garbage I remain equally hairless. Looking less like a bear and more like a wirey hairless cat.
Raising a razor blade to him, I being to interrogate, “Elongated hair, defiler of pores, how the fuck did you get here? What do you want from me?”
But he remains silent as I stare down at him.
“You’re hideous,” I tell him, “I hate you. Fuck you.” I say.
I press the razor to the pore and prepare to end his life.
But instead, I stop to think:
Being back at home gives me time to do shit like this. In fact, it’s the only thing I do besides stuffing my face with sushi, meeting up with old friends (for sushi), and spending my time on Facebook (thinking about sushi).
The renegade back hairs are rare. So, of all these things I usually find Facebook to be the hardest thing to deal with. When I’m not dealing with absurd and over abundant application requests (YOU’VE BEEN KISSED BY A SAILOR. YOU’VE BEEN LASSOED BY A COWBOY. YOU’VE BEEN BITTEN BY A ZOMBIE. YOU HAVE BEEN BEATEN UP BY AND FORCED TO WATCH A JOCK EAT YOUR GIRLFRIENDS PLACENTA. YOU HAVE BEEN SHOT OVER A BAD CRACK DEAL WITH SEVERAL BUFF, BANDNA WEARING NINJA PUERTO RICANS) I spend my time looking at old flames from back home. Marveling at the ridiculous number of girls I’ve burned through, but never shared anything relevant with.
“All these high school girls,” I think scrolling through the pages, “and not one stable or fulfilling relationship. Jesus, Dan Luke you really dropped the mother fucking ball on this one kid. Here these girls are staring families, getting knocked up, or falling into deeply committed relationships and they could have been something with you.
But worse of all Dan Luke, wearer of sombrero’s and shaker of maracas. You had an opportunity to indulge in carnal delights with these girls when they were in their prime and you didn’t. Shame on you. You were such pitiful pussy. If you were ever to have a cartoonist rendering of your High School self you’d just say: “Just draw a giant pussy. A great big, floppy pussy with huge, hairy vaginal lips. I think that’s the best representation of myself.”
Christ, Did I ever drop the ball back then. With each and everyone one of these girls. I had always been there on the eve of their first time getting drunk. And they would always take this opportunity to make a move on me.
But it was the same every time.
They would press their forehead against mine. And my forehead would explode in my chest. They’d clamp their hands on to my cheeks. And my stomach would hollow out and freeze over. They’d giggle. And my palms would sweat.
“I like you a lot,” they’d say.
“Say something sexy,” I’d think, “but don’t shit your pants. Whatever you do, do NOT shit your pants. Only certain chicks dig that Dan and those chicks are not for you. You’re not into the scat thing. Don’t shit your pants, but say something sexy.”
“You should really consider investing your money in stocks.”
“You’re a great guy.” They’d respond. Ignoring my brilliant life advice.
And I start to tremble. My eyes clench shut, my brow lowers under the load of sweat. “Stocks? What the fuck man?” I say to myself, “say something sexy you fucking pussy. Rub her thighs! Prepare your mansicle for entry! SAY SOMETHING SEXY.”
I smirk and put my hand on her shoulder. A move of confidence and say:
“With the right investing, one could retire easily and spend the rest of their days completely to their leisure.”
Then they’d giggle and respond with “I’m wet.”
And, in my most confident and sexy voice, I would respond: “At your age you should really consider a 401K. Have you considered a 401K? If not, you should really consider a 401K.”
They’d reel their arms in. Hands still clamped to my cheeks. Dragging my head to collide with theirs in a kiss. And I would suffer from a full body spasm, pulling away and saying “No, no… you’re drunk. Too drunk. And you should consider buying American.”
And I’d walk home alone disappointed with a huge hard on.
The thing is, it’s not like I didn’t want to fuck these chicks. I’d dream night and day about it. But when the moment came I felt like I’ve been put on stage with a huge spotlight on me and a gun pointed at me, being told I need to recite the United States Preamble in Chinese in under 30 seconds or I get my legs shot out and then cast into a pit of rabid dogs who would then proceed to rape me. And every time I’d choke, get shot in the legs, fall into the pit of rabid dogs, and get anally raped screaming, “Oh Christ this really fucking sucks!”
Of course, things changed when I got to college. But what kind of an accomplishment is that? College girls are skanky. They have been for a while now. And I had the chance to make them that way in High School and I decided to submit to celibacy.
And in this bathroom, with these thoughts swirling about, Dan Luke, age 19 is single, disillusioned, and disappointed in all the missed opportunities as he thinks of the Facebook pages of has beens, thinking one day that it’s just going to work out right. And he can be the one that knocks up chicks or get into stable, fulfilling relationships.
I stare at the back pube.
“I could never talk about any of this on my Blog. Where I have a fake ego that uses long sentences and rambles incessantly about how I’m dating Lily Allen and drowning in supermodels and am a burly huge man. And here I am. Hairless, womanless, and threatening a random pube that has grown on to my back,” I think.
And then I think, “Shit.”
“You’re a lone wolf,” I say to the back pube, pressing the razor onto him.
“You feel like you’ve been thrown somewhere where you don’t belong. Like you’re way in over your head,” I say
I slide the razor across the skin. Slice him from the pore. And then I watch him drift gently to the ground.
“I used to feel that way too,” I say, “but those days are gone.”
Filed under: Facebook, Personal Entry, Season 2, Sex