Inner Monologue Of Someone Not Getting A Blowjob

Really, these Emily Dickinson poems are quite touching. Been trying to “dive into” celibates this time in my life, the alliance of the unlaid I suppose. A death blow is a life blow to some — wait, what is she talking about? Also have that red snapper in the fridge which I should make with some potatoes and leek — cook that down with a nice Chardonnay, a flick of paprika, and try not to cry into my skillet.

Oh, and there’s that Thelonius Monk rare session take I need to explore, could listen to that on repeat while I eat my sad snapper. I like how jazz is basically attention deficit disorder on Adderall, and how men who listen to it seem irrevocably indignant about their abstruse taste. Maybe if I name drop Thelonius Monk at a party I might get someone’s number, some girl impressed by absurd classist things. This is how things seem to work.

It’s Saturday night, the night of wet sloppy blowjobs all across this baby-making-but-not-tonight world. From bar bathroom stalls, to limousine rides, to college dorm rooms, to plush douchey condos, to that abandoned Pontiac on cinderblocks covered in leaves in someone’s backyard. Seems like blowjobs are happening all over the place: spunk flying slo-mo in glorious arcs, wads hitting tonsils like boxing speedballs, the emphatic male redundancy of oh, yeah baby. Jesus, I just got really depressed.

If you think about it, a blowjob is kind of crazy — not in a psychiatric or morally qualitative sense — I mean like the ponderous somewhat overwhelming logistical measures it takes in getting a complete well-minded stranger to voluntarily put your potentially unwashed hence “dick cheesed” penis into their mouth and “bob” their head in unison with rugged manual jerks until, if they are considerate, you blow your baby glue. Seems insane.

I’m actually kind of glad I’m not getting a blowjob now, like I’m shortlisted for the Nobel Peace Prize for not subjecting well educated and politically empowered women to my dank splooge. Have some chicken salad or tofu; that’s all the protein they need. I’m a good person who enjoys refining his sensibilities reading Emily Dickinson poems about death. I hear she was a lesbian. Good for her.

And the Nobel Prize goes to mister Chen, for making dinner alone — dropping in half a stick of butter since he’s feeling masochistic and fat — and eating it to not Thelonius Monk but a crass late-’90s comedy with reoccurring titty shots only obliquely tied to the narrative. For wanking out his juvenile violence to an aptly paused frame, and leaving innocent women out of it. What a great guy.