Mr. Sensitivity...

So I was out last night, had this great night - nothing like a bottle of red and an Argentine steak.  I've been seeing this girl from London - she's been down here the past couple weeks to tour the country.  I don't know what she does, but I know she has a lot of money.  Because she kinda acts like me or tries to.  Anyway, she made this great plan -- that me and her should jump town and head to this place called Medanos.  It's wine country.   I don't really know what that means, but I drink wine, especially on cocaine and we fuck like it's nobody's business and she's leaving next week, so if I didn't go with her, I'd be out in the fucking cold.   

I could dive into shit from the trip that would be great -- but I don't really know great.  We saw a sunset and it was big and red and to be honest, I just don't get it.  I leave that shit to my friend, The Burn.  Me, I dig other things.  Like, for instance...

Last night, when we were both drunk and running low on convo, I told her that I wanted to tape the two of us fucking -- because she was leaving the next day and I wanted something to remember her by -- my fancy line.  But of course, this wasn't the reason I wanted to film her.  Don't get me wrong, she's brilliant, really is.  Last summer, girl did the London half triathlon.  Girl's taut.  Girl loves to fuck.  Girl fucks solid -- so solid. But I was more interested in me. 

When I presented the idea, she laughed.  I held out my hand, told her to say no more - that was all I needed to hear -- obviously, she was totally cool with it.  The previous week, I had made an investment on three mini HD camcorders.  And these things are fucking tiny -- James fucking Bond.  And I hid them all over the house.  One in the laundry room because I fill the washing machine with golf balls and start it and fuck her as she sits on top of it.  She likes that.  Another one went in the living room because I purchased a fuck sling -- which is mostly like a hammock but for fucking but I don't really like it all that much.  It was okay the first time, but too hard to come. The last one went in the bedroom.  It's boring, but I knew this to be a safe fallback in case scenarios A and/or B failed. 

So we get home...so drunk, I had already driven the car into an embankment and we had to walk it the last mile.  So by the time we get home, we're already sweaty and the whole way, I'm telling her of all the awful things I'm going to do to her.  I told her over and over, how many times I was going to make her sing.  I talked about the washing machine, and the amazing bed -- trying so hard to steer thoughts clear of the fuck sling.  I couldn't deal.  Thank this godless world I didn't have to.

So she's already wildly wet without any real prep.  I'm telling you, fucking soldier, and...

You know that scene from the Departed where Jack Nicholson throws coke all over these two bitches and tells them -- I don't fucking remember what he told them.  Okay, so now I tell her to take me in her mouth and pull away.  When she does, I dust it with coke and tell her to do it again and off we fucking go.  We start in the laundry room - this high angle shot from the corner ceiling.  It could have been so good but the lighting was off - and I kept on trying to get her to lean back - for the shot, but I couldn't tell her. And those fucking golf balls -- they just bang so fucking loud.  So fucking loud.  I didn't even think to think of it.  Terrible sound.  And she was pitching gems.  Oxford educated, but the mouth on this girl, my fucking goodness. When she talks dirty -- I didn't even know what some of the words meant, I just knew I wanted them for my arsenal and that I was so high, I was literally trying to grab them out of the air and eat them and consume them and absorb them so they would become a part of me and so I could at a later time utter them with utmost intelligence.  On several occasions, she asked me what the fuck I was doing.  I didn't have an answer, just told her to keep talking vicious because vicious was keeping me hard.  I fucking live for vicious. 

Thank godlessness I had the bedroom camera. The house I'm staying in has this digital clock on the wall -- huge, obnoxious.  Because of it, I can tell you something about our duration -- the memory card ran out long before we stopped fucking.  We started at 3 on the kitchen floor - it moved into the laundry room until 4 - until we found that bed until 8.  Seriously.  I don't know how either.  Okay, maybe I do -- cocaine and lube.  And she loved me -- and this was supposed to be our goodbye.  Poor girl, someone besides me should've told her I'm soulless -- which I did, in fact...over and over.  I was constantly apologizing for my actions because I'm starting to feel like it's the right thing to do.  At least decent. I don't know.

She left today and when she did, I sat down to watch the footage. And I gotta be honest, I don't know if I like what I saw.  There's this curl that folds in on the bottom of my left ass when I'm fucking -- I don't like that.  And when she's on top and riding me, I don't like my face -- looks like I gotta piss real bad with nowhere to piss.  And I want my cock to be bigger.  I want to be the best there ever was.  I want her to go back and tell all her friends about some guy who fucked her like no one has ever fucked her.  I want to be the one she talks about until the day she dies -- the one she rubs to when she's got nothing else - the thought that works, without fail until the end of her time.  I want to be legend.   Durban.  

And I'm watching her and the way she moves and the way she rocks and the way she comes -- oh fuck, the way she comes.  And I'm thinking I should buy a ticket to London.  I'm thinking maybe I should follow her there.  No, I decide I'm going to follow her there, to her home, her country, to surprise her when all I can hear over my shoulder is what the fuck John -- and with much exclamation.  And she's standing there, watching me watching me fuck her and her eyes are gaping now that they're free of blow and Malbec and all I can tell you...she isn't happy.  

She came back for her passport -- always the fucking passport -- and I try to explain my interpretations of her claiming it to be fine, doing what I did.  And she isn't buying it and asks for the tape, which I have no choice but to turn over.  I ask her to stay and she says she doesn't think so and she grabs what she forgot, her fucking passport, and she walks out the door and I wait until she's gone then watch the video from the laundry room and I must say, with the lighting -- and sounds -- the crooked angle...it does have a sleight French New Wave look to it. And I have to admit, in that one I look pretty fucking good. 

Like a star. 

Why I Have Problems With My Friend, The Burn...

Burn,

First of all, you are a fucking moron.  Excuse my lacking sensitivity but if that's what you're looking for, you could always wrangle up one of your California pussies to weep to.  I lack patience.  

So you fell in love.  You fell in love in 6 weeks?  No, wait, sorry -- 4 weeks into it, you tell this girl that you love her.  What the fuck are you thinking, man?  Do you realize how long 4 weeks is?  I was kicked out of Princeton in 4 weeks.  Remember that?  No, you probably don't because you didn't know me then.  But even if you did know me, you wouldn't remember and you want to know why, because I was only there for 4 fucking weeks!  Wrap your head around it.

Now, I don't want to be an asshole and put words in your mouth.  So, what I'm going to do is quote you, thus letting you speak for yourself and then piss all over everything you're saying.  Let us begin.

"We had a lunch today that began with a heavy kiss and ended with her gift-giving and a heavy goodbye.  She drove away and I didn't watch -- some kind of conquering perception of mind -- my illusion of strength disallowed it.  I opened the gate and had to stop.  I felt light, like something was pouring from the soles in my feet, bleeding out into the concrete -- this force vacating my body, instantly replaced by another force, something heavy and daunting, a familiar thing to me."

A kiss?  You ended with a kiss?  Really?  So this girl cracks your fragile heart and doesn't at least have the decency to dish out a break fuck?  Obviously your head is shit.  Obviously, you're midway through one of your epic spirals, trying to talk your way through it, saying things like, "I'm gonna bury myself now, Kim and Val, Kim and Val.  Work, work, work.  Fuck the world, better alone, better alone, better alone."  Asshole, you always say it in threes.  And you'll get bitter and distant and fucking sensational.  Your hatred for the everyday man'll come back in roaring waves.  I like you dark.  You're more interesting that way so let me help.  You'll probably never find another one like her(6 weeks), you'll likely never love again(6 weeks), you'll never get hard for another woman(6 fucking weeks!).   She won, every sense of the word.  But I'll bet that if she spent time blogging the shit she was going through, no way she can write like that.  Who can?  You obviously have that on her -- what else matters?

Time for the speed round:

"I remember the world disappearing -- inside her -- I can't.  Too much."

Know what, I was going to go off on that.  Then, I Googled the bitch again.  Sorry, don't mean to call her a bitch, I'm sure she isn't - you speak highly -- but again, you're a fucking moron.  She injured my boy.  Fuck her.  Anyway, her pics...yeah, I'd get lost inside that too.  Confession -- I may have already.

"This great competence I praise in myself often fails."

I'm too lazy to even find a synonym for fucking moron.  Have I mentioned the 6 week thing yet.  Bag 'em and tag 'em.  Self investment is the only play.  These aren't difficult concepts.

"It's not an easy thing to do -- to let it go, when you want to fight for something you can't fight for."

Shoulda fucked her one last time.  That's raw, her non compliance.  I don't blame you for aching.  But think about this, she ain't fighting nothing.  Remember all the stories you'd tell, washing failed flames away, and freedom and breaking free and they'd cry and fight and all you wanted to do was wash them clean, move onward, move upward.  Name of the game is cut and run and you played it better than anyone.  Tables turn.  She's their revenge.  Eat it.  Tastes like shit but enjoy it. I'd tell you to go out and find another but you'll go off on one of your ridiculous shit spews, devaluing what you deem to be, "heartless, recreational fucks."  You'll tell me about how you rarely fall, that these things don't work for you and I'll god damn puke and I don't need to god damn puke right now.  Recreational fucks power the world.  They do. 

"I feel like this girl pulled 2-3 songs out of me.  2-3 songs that at any given moment could have cured all that ails and ailed.  Now that she's gone, they're gone.  They're lost.  And I'll never know.  I'm worried a night will come and the thought wont let me sleep, maybe for weeks.  Maybe I worry too much."

Jesus Christ -- and I don't even believe in the fucker.  Can I ask you a question?  Do you even know what you're talking about?  Okay, that's a bad question.  I know you know. And I get it dude, I do.  Or, actually, I don't, but I know you enough to pretend like I know, and that I get it.  I just see you down, I hear you down and I can feel it, and it ain't right. 

I read your shit right now and I thought back - that night I met you in London.  I think you were on your way back to Chicago and you told me to come meet you in the airport, in Heathrow.  They wouldn't let me in the terminal, and I had to buy a fucking ticket to Berlin but I met you in that bar and we drank Guinness and Patron the entire night and got so drunk.  They closed the bar and we had to wait outside gate 16 for your flight and had another 7 some hours to go.  I had already picked up a gallon of JD at duty free for no reason and we sipped on it and listened to your I-Pod on that shitty carpeting.  Everyone passed us, suspicious.  You started talking about this feeling you had, that nothing had come like it recently - that it was this calm, like you trusted your way in the world for the first time in your life.  Not surprisingly, I hadn't the clue what you were speaking.  You reached out to your I-Pod, changed the song - Modest Mouse's "Trailer Trash."  And you said, "It feels like this."  And we sat there and listened, passed the bottle back and fourth.  You had this look in your eye and I felt like I understood. I fucking got it, even if it was only for that second.  That was the moment I began to envy you. First man ever.   And I may never stop, even when you're a fucking moron, like now. 

Let her go.  You'll be fine.  You'll always be fine.  You're the fucking Burn, man.  The fucking Burn.