Pussy Problems pt.2: Of Bitches and Blunts

She had very beautiful hands.

As she removed her class ring and immediately started breaking up the marijuana that had brought her to the car in the first place, that was the main thought that permeated through Mark’s mind. It wasn’t about her ass, which judging by the way it fit into her black tights was firm enough to bounce a nickel off of. It wasn’t about her tits, which were accentuated just perfectly with her v-neck and fake sterling silver charm necklace. It was her hands. Soft, freshly manicured, and daring him to imagine how they’d feel--running through his hair, running up and down his cock. These were the hands of Venus and they were turning him into the creepy bastard every man became when confronted with a beautiful woman.

“Uh...do you want to talk?”

The girl simply shook her head, talking was not a part of this ritual. She had to have been used to it, he assumed, a girl that could properly roll a blunt was a hard thing to find. They were usually taught by guys and considering the whole seediness of stoner culture--it wasn’t a long leap to imagine that the empty dutches and altered state of mind had lead to empty panties and rash decisions. Mark wasn’t going to lie, he was intimidated by her--she was probably a lot more experienced than him both in regards to spliff rolling and in regards to random stoned sex.

Of course, that was on him--making the leap that smoking with a girl alone was a guarantee to having stoned sex.

It was bad to assume that every girl who smoked weed was fucking like a rabbit coming out of two weeks of solitary confinement, but this was 2011. The Sexual Revolution had come and gone and it had left the United States filled with would be whores--who couldn’t even really be called whores. The plain truth was that it was simply easier for girls to get laid than it was for guys. Pussy was power and women knew this from a very early age, Mark had to just look at his own life to affirm that saying--of all his accomplishments the loss of his virginity ranked disproportionately high up there.

She worked both her hands and her tongue perfectly as she rolled the now thick dutch. He had seen his friends roll up countless times, but never had it been so goddamn sensual. Was he just imagining it? She seemed so passive and carefree as her hands began at the tip and worked their way gently down the shaft of the fattie. Every second or so she’d lick with an enthusiasm and skill that would send a priest into a cold shower. Finally, she looked up at him with her big brown eyes...

“Do you have a poker?”

And there! The silence was broken and his live doobie rolling sex doll was looking at him expectantly. Did he have a poker for her? Oh, if only she knew. Still, Mark disconnected his headphones and handed them to the girl. She poked and she packed and she roasted. Soon, she raised the thick and hardened object to her mouth, puckered her lips and sucked until it was glowing red.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

She had too.

Pussy Problems pt. 1

"Many a good man has been put under the bridge by a woman."

-Bukowski

Charlie was desperate.

Yes, desperate was the perfect word--even though it was completely cliche. Charlie was a writer or at least that’s what he called himself, he hadn’t produced anything in months and that was the source of his desperation. Things just didn’t seem to be working out and all he seemed to have was a composition book filled with scrawlings, a dead end job filled with monotony, and a hapless existence that had left him broke and woman less.

Until he wrote something.

He hated the fact that he just simply couldn’t produce. He had tried all the methods that had worked for him before this dry spell--he had listened to music, he had drank, he had smoked, he had even delved into psychedelics and he hadn’t even been greeted with bad work...simply nothingness. It almost felt like he had reached his plateau, that he had crashed face first into the glass ceiling that was his potential and had been left with nothing. His talent expired before it had a chance to be used, his life dream over before he had even reached his mid twenties.

It was depressing, pathetic and the worse part was knowing all of those things made him want to write even less.

He was a writer who simply couldn’t write and as if he couldn’t feel anymore cliche he also found himself sitting in a Starbucks staring at a blinky black line as he pondered what would come first--a suicide attempt or something at least pretending to be inspiration.

“Charlie?”

He woke up from his self depreciated daze to stare at the voice who had called his name and then immediately regretted doing such. Not her. Not now. Goddamn it!

“Corrine, shit, what’s up?”

Corrine. If he called her the one who got away he’d be completely wrong--she’d be the one who didn’t even really start. Just one of the unrequited loves that introspective writers who lack charisma seem to pick up between the ages of 13 and 15 where low self esteem, high intelligence, and teenage awkwardness all blended into a cocktail that turned good kids into twisted and ugly men who were incapable of writing anything.

But Corrine looked beautiful.

She looked beautiful and charming and here Charlie was uninspired and vapid. It was as if the universe had some law that made sure that you never ran across a past love at your best, but really was there a best with Corrine? She had seen how desperate and how flawed and how weak he was. There was no way he could put up a front with her--she knew the truth. He couldn’t be cocky, he couldn’t respond with a joke--she knew. Fronting to a girl that had broken your heart was a lot like fronting a guy who had knocked you out--no matter how brave you were, they knew how you looked while unconscious, they knew they could take you, they knew that they were stronger.

“Heh. Nothing much, what about you?”

What could he say? That he had a dead end job, that although he had achieved nothing but praise he simply couldn’t take advantage of his one talent? That he was doing poorly in school and in general poorly in life. Really how could he face her? How could he face her beauty and her charm when all he had was fragility and desperation.

“Eh. Same old, same old, actually I was about to leave...”, he said fumbling with his cell phone checking a text message that wasn’t there, “But, really, it was great seeing you!”

She smiled at him.

Fuck her smile, the same smile that made him think--maybe he had a chance. The smile that sent him to some (500) Days of Summer fantasy, that fucking retarded smile that made him as weak and as powerless as she knew him to be.

“I’ve missed you Charlie.”

No!

He tried to prevent himself from saying it, he knew that once he did he could never take it back. His life was filled with enough problems as it was and he didn’t need to be bringing in Corrine to make things more interesting. He had to write! He had to do something! Talking to a girl who had established no interest in him and had left him heart broken just seemed like a poorly thought out decision.

And yet, he did it anyway.

“Yeah, me too...”

She smiled, her charming smile and then pulled out her fancy phone.

“We should catch up, we were best friends in high school and I heard you got published a few months ago! It’ll be fun!”

Numbers were exchanged, hugs were given, and then as soon as he exited the Starbucks Charlie exploded in curses. A writer who couldn’t write involving himself with a woman that had left him emotionally stunted--it could only end in complete and utter shit.
And still, he couldn’t write.

The day had left him with nothing but discomfort and the night had lead him to his friends front yard. Blunts were being rolled, beers were being bought and the strange balance between misogyny and philosophy was being tested.

“I saw Corrine today.”

And his friends knew immediately what they were in for and that they didn’t really want it. The emotional roller coaster that they were obligated to go on simply because of loyalty and friendship.

“Yeah?”

That was really all they could offer? He had just said something that had crushed him with emotional weight and all his friends could do was say “yeah?”. It was insulting, infuriating--

“Yeah.”

What else could he have said?

One friend exited the car, lit up the blunt and smiled his cheshire smile as the medication was passed and everyone in the small circle attempted to do their best Sigmund Freud impression.

“So, Charlie has a pussy problem,” one friend offered passing the blunt to another--

“Yeah, his problem is that he can’t get no pussy.”

They all cackled. Male friendship was odd in that regard, while females spent their time being openly sweet and secretly vindictive--men made fun of each other and yet remained fiercely loyal. He supposed that was the difference between men and women, men were at least capable of loyalty and they gave it away fairly easy. A woman required chasing and taming and all the emotional bullshit that made men like Charlie weak and unsure.

“So, Charlie, what is the problem--the pussy or that you’re a pussy?”

That was the grand question, wasn’t it? But, Charlie didn’t know and he knew that more thought would only lead him to doubting himself even more. He simply medicated and then went to sleep, woke up and then went through the day much like the last. Every twenty minutes or so he’d write a text message and then delete it and all this while staring at the damnable computer screen and thinking of her damnable smile.

He still could not write.

And he still couldn’t think of what the problem was.