All girls, girlfriends, chicks, bitches, and hos are figments of the writer’s imagination. Seriously.
Good Chick-Lit scares the fuck out of me. Most of it is awful and don’t ask me how I know; I’m already risking my reputation by writing this. But the good shit is way scarier than the best, old Stephen King stuff he wrote while he was still drinking and doing coke.
The one I’m reading now. It’s a collection of short stories by Miranda July called No One Belongs Here More Than You. Though I’m sure she’s a total nut-ball, her writing makes me think that all chicks are just as fucking crazy. Jesus, I should have been highlighting the crazy parts while I was reading so I could write this like a paper in grad school—not that I was ever very good at that. I have to say that she’s a good writer. I guess I wouldn’t be so freaked out if she weren’t.
The first one that got me was her masturbating while talking on the phone to her sister. Her sister is a total slut and was telling her about some dude’s giant cock and jizz shooting everywhere and shit like that. The thing was, her sister knew she was fingering herself. When she came, they hung up. The narrator—who I think is the author of course—is not a slut at all and seems to only get off while her sister tells her about the huge cocks she collects. Thank god, I was not turned on by this. I was scared. And possibly scarred. It was so realistic that I started to think about every girlfriend I’ve ever had finger-fucking themselves while talking to their sisters, whether they had sisters or not. And they were always faking orgasms with me. Or if they did come, they were thinking about listening to their sisters talk about giant cocks and sperm shooting all over the room. My delicate, insecure heart can’t take that kind of shit. I kept reading.
I just read another one about her getting raped by a black cloud monster—obviously her father or uncle or neighbor. That’s not even the wack part. Shit. I need to back up. The story is about this novel she wrote in college about the black cloud rape monster. She tries to meet up with an old professor who said she had “promise” or something. It’s a nice frame, and that part gets wack too.
Back to the black cloud rape monster: He falls in love with her, and she gets tired of him. Kinda breaks up with him, if that’s possible with a cloud rape monster. He leaves, but before he does, he tells her that he will come back as a dude named Steve. She promises to love him, even if he’s ugly. Time passes. She graduates high school and college. The professor she was supposed to meet to talk about her novel about the black cloud rape monster stands her up, and she becomes a teaching assistant for retards. There’s a kid in the class named Steve—you guessed it—he’s the rape monster. She starts an affair with this retarded kid named Steve. Fucking and sucking his retarded dick and all that. She even tries to teach him to read with her book about him. A few months later, she sees the other tards in the back of the class passing notes. She snatches one up and reads it. It says that some other tardo girl has been sucking Steve’s tardo pecker. Jesus! For a minute, I thought she was going to kick her ass, but she didn’t. I think she went home and cried.
Again, I wonder if all girls are a little crazy.
The last story I read was about this chick—the author, I’m sure—who was sort of a lesbian. She was in love with her best friend but the best friend didn’t see her that way. I’m pretty sure the friend was a Borderline. The friend was probably more lesbian than the author—I mean narrator—but who knows? They move in together after high school and don’t want to get regular jobs. Who the fuck does? Their first scheme is doing sexual shit for old, rich ladies. They get one gross one, getting paid barely enough to cover their rent, and decide not to do that again. They consider working at Mr. Peeps, letting dudes beat off to whatever they do behind the glass. The Borderline hates this idea. Next thing you know, the friend ditches the narrator for this rich, high school girl. This breaks the fuck out of the narrator’s heart. Understandably. Three days later, she’s sticking all kinds of shit up her pussy at Mr. Peeps while dudes beat off. This is about the time that I kinda freaked out.
First I thought, Goddamnit! I don’t want to work, but I don’t think anyone is gonna pay me to do naked shit behind glass. That would be so fucking easy. (The chick writers who do this kind of thing always complain about it and how gross it is and all that, but fuck them. It’s a nice fucking option. Not to mention, there’s always the part in the story where they admit that is turns them on a little.) Besides being jealous of the ease with which decent-looking chicks can make money, I immediately think that every girlfriend I’ve ever had has been a sex worker at some point in their lives. And they liked it. And people paid to get the same thing I got for free. And maybe they liked it more. Jesus Christ, I have issues. Anyway, I am completely sure that every girl I ever loved had, at some point, been a sex worker, if not a full-blown hooker. Just once. Just to see. Just for the thrill and nothing else. Just to say they did it or just to write about doing it. Just like me when I tried to have sex with that hooker in Amsterdam, except different. Except wrong. All of it making everything with me a terrible lie. A betrayal. The unexpected wetness saying, No, I never loved you.
But maybe I’m the one who needs to call my therapist.