I like my apartment cold when I sleep because somehow I’m convinced that it is sort of like a hyperbaric chamber like that, that I won’t get as many wrinkles as I age because I’m freezing my youthful looks as I dream.
I have a beauty regimen that I practice every morning, even on days when I don’t have to go to my day job. I open my eyes and literally thrust myself out of bed. No laying around, hiding under the covers. No “ten more minutes.” I just eject myself out and run into the bathroom where I take a hot shower. The length of the shower depends on how long it takes for me to masturbate. On a normal morning, it takes me about five minutes to come. On a bad morning, it could be around ten. On good mornings, it could only take two.
A morning is good if I wake up and there is a pretty, naked girl next to me in my bed.
A morning is good if I have a casual date later in the day which I know will end with a pretty, naked girl in my bed.
A morning is good if a pretty girl submits a poem to my literary publication. Then I fantasize about how I could get her naked and in my bed, which usually then it only takes about three minutes to come in the shower.
After I masturbate, I wash my hair very gently with organic thickening shampoo, using my fingers to make little soft massaging circles, because I am deathly afraid of going bald. If I wash my hair too carelessly, it might fall out. I use organic face wash and organic body soap. I make sure to wash my pubic area twice so that it doesn’t taste scuzzy if I end up getting head later. When I step out of the shower I brush my teeth with organic toothpaste and splash my face fifteen times with freezing cold water to seal the pores. I stole the face-splashing part from Marilyn Monroe. When I am all dry and still naked, I rub Jergens Natural Glow moisturizer all over my body so that I can look tan. Then I slap my cheeks a couple times to make it look like I am blushing. If I feel like shit that day, due to staying up too late or drinking too much, I’ll pull out a hidden bottle of Maybelline liquid foundation and blend a light layer of that over my tired complexion. If a woman can forever hide her unattractive skin under makeup, then why can’t I do it just every once in a while?
Picking out what I wear for the day is pretty easy because I have coordinated everything in my wardrobe to match. All of my pants are extremely tight-fitting, especially in the crotch region, which helps to accentuate my masculinity. It feels good in social settings to have someone notice my bulging package. It doesn’t hurt that I have a pretty tight ass, too. Throw some tight-fitting skinny-legged khakis over these God-given features and watch the ladies drool.
This week has been unusually fortunate for me, as I have been getting really good sex every night from this hot indie babe I met through my online literary scene. Yes, I am having sex with someone that I met on the Internet. She is in town visiting friends, but takes the train to my apartment every evening when I get off work. I just want to get her naked as soon as I get her in the door, but she makes me do actual “hanging out” with her.
“Why do you always do this, act like you didn’t come over to have sex?” I say.
“We are going to have sex,” she says, “I just want to do actual friend things with you, too. Whats the rush? You’ll get your sex.”
She sits on the floor and folds paper cranes.
“Why are you sitting on the floor?” I say. “The bed is more comfortable.”
I am just trying to get her on the bed, but she manages to get me sitting on the hard floor with her. She tries to teach me to fold paper cranes, and I am absolutely lousy at it. I am so lousy at it because I am just thinking about fucking her the whole time. She notices the bulge in my pants and laughs. I go in the bathroom and manage to jerk one out in under two minutes. I check the tuft of chest hair crawling out of my v-neck. I position the chest hair in, what I find to be, a very sexy manner. I open the cabinet under the sink, grab a small bottle of hairspray, and give my tuft of chest hair just one little pssst. I replace the hairspray back under the sink and shut the cabinet. Do I smell like hairspray? I open the bathroom window and let the smell air out.
When I emerge, I go directly to the kitchen and grab a can of Bud Light out of the fridge.
“Oh man, that’s sick,” she says. She has been giving me a load of snooty crap everyday about having an actual taste in beers. She likes to say things like, “Haven’t you ever tried a milk stout? How can you drink that Bud Light crap? You’re such a bro!”
I mean, what the hell is a milk stout? That sounds disgusting.
“Is there a grocery store around here?” she says. “Let’s have a wine and cheese tasting. It will be fun. Do you like cheese, I mean, really like cheese? I don’t mean like Kraft American Singles, or colby jack, or cheap cheddar. I mean cheese, like gorgonzola, fontina, limburger?”
“Yeah, I mean, I like cheese, wine, sounds good.” I am thinking about fucking her.
“I can buy the cheese with my food stamps, introduce you to some wine, then maybe you won’t want to drink Bud Light all the time.”
She is sitting on the floor still, smiling up at me with my Bud Light. I am a cheap Light beer type of guy who runs a quasi-prolific literary publication, buys his clothes from H&M, and listens to Of Montreal on my iPod while riding the train to work. She is a wine-and-cheese type of girl who writes poetry, gets her clothes from a free secondhand store for the severely impoverished, and listens to Donovan on vinyl. She thinks she is going to inject me with some type of culture, some sense of worldliness, and I let her think this because I like watching her small perky tits bounce when she rides me. Plus, she will be leaving for home on the bus in a couple of days, and none of this will have mattered. So I let her go on in vain, trying to get me to appreciate the mentally fluffy side of life.
We walk through snow and burning wind to get to the grocery store. I don’t know where the fancy cheese aisle is. Every time I go to the grocery store, I only go to the cereal and milk sections. Cereal and milk make up a large part of my diet.
She picks out some crackers, some blue cheese with a weird name, and some Italian cheese I can’t pronounce. We go to the wine section and I pick out the wine.
“Crane Lake?” she says. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, what?” I say. She pauses and looks confused, bewildered.
“We are doing wine-and-cheese tasting and you pick Crane Lake?”
We look at each other. I don’t get what she means. Yeah, I picked out Crane Lake, what about it?
“Ok,” she says, “Crane Lake it is.”
Back at my apartment, she sits on the floor, attempting to separate small chunks of blue cheese with a very buttery, crumbling cracker. There are no knives in my apartment. Like I said, the only food that has ever been in there is cereal and milk. There is one spoon in my apartment. There is one bowl. There is one cup in my apartment. It is a coffee mug. We share the wine in the mug.
I taste the blue cheese. “I can’t eat this,” I say. “It tastes awful. How could somebody eat this?”
“Are you serious? I thought you said you liked cheese.”
“What is the blue stuff, anyway?”
“That’s mold. It’s good. It’s what makes it stinky.”
“Oh my God, mold? That’s disgusting! No way am I eating that!”
“During the aging process, the cheese makers pierce the cheese with stainless steel needles to allow the mold to grow into the channels and cause the marbling effect. It’s really quite amazing.” She looks anxious.
I sit on the floor with her long enough to finish the Crane Lake. I watch her eat the mold cheese. It is both disgusting and extremely sexual. She seems nervous that I am refusing to eat the mold cheese.
I sit on the edge of my bed and begin to take my shoes off as she puts the cheese leftovers in my refrigerator. “The only things in your fridge are milk, a case of Bud Light, and some ketchup packets,” she says, “and now some stinky cheese you won’t eat.”
She sits next to me on my bed. Yes, she is on my bed. Finally. Thank fucking God.