Candor Ends Paranoia

I am never my true self. I am eons away from it. Dragging my body around in public like a corpse tangled in a cast net. Every laugh stabs my soul. Every fucking dreadful snicker from those people; breaks my spirit in two. Most of the time, it is esoteric laugher, harming no one, but I sop up all of it, like biscuit gravy, milky and tormented.

After soaking and wobbling, I hide from the giggles. Absconding my hemorrhoid balloons behind a bookshelf. But the laughing fucks me threw the spines and pages. No shelter, I visually bathe in bloody. I think about bludgeoning those happy skulls. But I don’t. I have to find peace and get horny again. When you do it without marijuana and whiskey, you have to exhibit your neurosis, embarrassingly. And that is done with Frank Gecko.

I saw her jean shorts in the American Literature tunnel. The campus library packed with these daisy dukes. The male twenty-year-old dick-wads orbit them desultory with ear phones. Their pampered pimples not yet sagged from years of capitalistic slavery.

I have been a wounded, aching, wage slave, for centuries. I can fuck animalistic. These ladies sense it. Their pussies exhale musk from their void that longs under their thong fronts. At the sight of my grey hair grappled behind my ears. Like aged rope caused by postponing suicide— several hundred times; they shiver.

She smiled at me and I looked away. If I looked back, she’d see Ted Bundy’s failed guile–all in the eyes. “I don’t know what to do with these creatures,” Ted once said. All that earlier laughter debilitated me. My charisma, a salted earthworm. My dick retreated like a dog’s tail running up my own asshole. It would be easier to take a cock there then smile back. Sometimes I shave my ass like peeled potatoes. I never crave cock but could celebrate my smooth bubble butt with them. Like an offering of a peacock train I possess.

Instead of smile, I acted naturel. (They say act natural and be yourself. Ok) Candor ends paranoia. I crawled on the floor like a gecko. I made high pitch noises. I crawled to her ankles. “Momma, you smell like Gardenias.”

She paused like marble, terrified. Then ignored me as she’d unearthed a rattlesnake.

“You are pretty. My name is Sage.”

“I am Shannon.”

“I am a social idiot I suppose.” Did it work? If she contemplated me with any remote smirk; and she did, I scored. (First time in eight years of jerking off on webcam for eighty-year-old gay men.) I diverted my nervousness by acting like a reptile. You have to let them know the six million “prince” movies they’ve been subjected to is horseshit, we are reptiles that talk. I had no more words and wanted to fuck. The “prince” angle would have worked but most times, guys are riding a lie; they become exhausted and crash. (Crash landings right before pussy time.) You might as well show candor and be authentic.

We walked to her dorm. I told her I sit in private for hours and make movies with my hands and third eye. Id’ be in a self-induced seizure firing helicopter bullets into deep ocean evaders like Navy divers who sank with heavy handled anchors. (Like a conductor of the third eye.) I nearly ripped my own eyes out with the explosions. I would grind my teeth into abscesses. “That is the reason I crawled to you like a gecko.”

“I am not following you.”

“I am following you,” I said. “To your dorm.” I could only think of biting, slapping, and fucking her doggy style. Molesting her tits like a criminal, hoping her boyfriend walked in while my eyes rolled back like a reptile.

Her dorm smelled like lady: strawberry shampoo, coconut oil, lavender soap, grape conditioner, bleach, and popcorn. Her bed, unmade, cooked in the sun by the window. Oh God, please let me fuck her next to an open window for all to see.

We sat on her tiny sofa with cold Stella beer. She opened up, so I could see her tan inner thighs. We agreed to watch Taxi Drive. Her green bong filled our skulls with white clouds. My hallucinations started growing antlers. “Travis” began stalking Cybill Shepherd. I imagined fucking her hard on the sofa.

She looked at me for fifteen seconds: a long fucking time. I leaned to kiss her. Her tongue cold and evasive. I lifted up her shirt, sliding the fabric against her breasts. Her tits plopped back in place like warm pumpkins. I swallowed the ends of her grapefruits, like seeds being sucked from a lemon. Her inner thighs cold as I grabbed a handful.

I moved her into the sunlight. Second floor window, wide as Shakespeare’s Globe. She slurped my cock. I leaned in to slide down her jeans and panties. The sunlight baked her ass. I turned her and slid my salivated cock into her pussy. My thighs spread as my entire macho male world penetrated. “Oh fuck me professor,” she said.

Every dorm window filled with nerds that dreamed of fucking her. But it was me. They watched and jerked to me riding her. I embraced the moment. Every fucking second; billions upon billions of failing to get pussy; corrected! Every tormented chump still in pussy-less hell watching I savored. “I own this pussy little girl. You’re a good girl!” “You’re my little–!”

I filled her pussy with warm spillage, grabbing her right foot like a gear stick. I walked the dorm sidewalk in the sun: Frank Gecko, with his legs crossed; emptied out; paranoid of nothing.