The Average American Male Page 3

I want to explain to this girl that I’m not gay, that Carlos is just my gay friend, but she’s already laughing and I notice that her tits are a little saggy. So I just get up and follow Carlos into CPK.

  We sit down, order the same shit we always do, and Carlos starts up a conversation that’s pretty much identical to a million we’ve had before. He wants to be an agent, but not at Paradigm, where he’s currently an assistant. He always gets crushes on straight masculine guys. He’s never going to find a fag who’s masculine enough to satisfy him. And he rounds it out with some other shit about life not going the way he wants it to.

  As the waiter walks away from the table after setting down our drinks, the following conversation takes place:

  Carlos says, “I’d like him to plow my ass like a cabbage field.”

  “Tell him that the next time he comes over and see if it works.”

  “Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “What? You’ve just come out and told some guy that you want him to ‘plow your ass’ and then you go do it?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t fucking believe that.”

  “It’s not the same as how you poor cunt-lickers have to deal with women. Think about it. If a woman came up to you and said she wanted to fuck your cock till it broke, you’d go home with her in a heartbeat, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But a woman would never be that honest and no guy can say anything even close to honest to a woman if he ever wants to get laid. But if you just get rid of all that woman shit, all you’ve got left is two guys who want to fuck and have no problem telling each other as much.”

  “So in a bar you just go up to a guy and say, ‘Let’s fuck,’ and within fifteen minutes you’re back at one of your places fucking?”

  “Not exactly. This is where the whole woman thing has its benefits. Once you straight assholes know there’s going to be fucking, there’s never any question about who’s fucking and who’s getting fucked. With two faggots, that’s the only question. Usually before you even bring up the possibility of fucking, you ask, ‘Are you a top or a bottom?’”

  “What’re you?”

  “I’m a bottom all the way.”

  “So you let guys fuck you in the ass?”

  “I beg them to. It’s the only way I can cum.”

  “So you don’t ever actually put your dick in anything? You don’t even like getting your dick sucked?”

  “I tried it once, but couldn’t finish. I suck dick and take it up the ass and that’s all I do.”

  “You must be pretty popular.”

  “Please, ninety percent of the faggots on this planet are bottom boys and most of ’em are far better looking than me.”

  “So most gay guys don’t like to fuck, they want to be fucked?”

  “Think about it, if we wanted to put our dicks in a hole, we could just get a girl. Speaking of, how’re you and Casey doing?”

  “Same old bullshit.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s just…the same.”

  “I guess that’s better than bad. Is she still doing Groundlings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, I met some guy at a party last week who said he was in Groundlings. I offered to suck his cock, but he was a complete bottom, too. That’s usually how it works.”

  “So what happens with two bottoms?”

  “The same thing that would happen if you met a girl who told you the only way she could get off was to strap on a dildo and fuck you in the ass and she would never suck your cock or let you fuck her…you never talk to each other again. Unless, of course, you’re both drunk and horny and no other prospects are shaping up. Then you go home together, try to fuck each other with limp dicks, and then get out the dildos.”

  “So you use dildos on other guys instead of your own dicks?”

  “I’m a fucking bottom, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  The waiter hears that last bit before he sets down our lunch. I think I see him flash Carlos a smile before leaving.

  The rest of the lunch conversation is less interesting, mostly about Reese Witherspoon’s movies and mostly coming from Carlos. When we get the check there’s another piece of paper with it that Carlos picks up, reads, and then shows me.

  It reads, “I would love to plow your tight ass,” followed by a number.

  some chapter

  Closure

  I get an e-mail from Jenna.

  It reads, “I don’t know exactly how to tell you this, so I guess I’ll just do it. I’m getting married to Mitch on Saturday.—Me.”

  Jenna was my longest relationship—four years. I’m pretty sure she was the only girl I ever really loved. She was going to move out to California with me after she graduated from college in Colorado so we could get married. Instead, the week of her graduation, she got arrested for stealing from Forever 21, where she was an assistant manager and apparently the ringleader of a scam in which she and fellow employees would take clothes that customers returned instead of noting the return and putting the merchandise back on the shelves as dictated by the Forever 21 employee handbook. The same week she told me she couldn’t afford a place of her own so she moved in with her “friend” Mitch, who was the manager of a NASCAR Superstore in the mall. She dumped me a few weeks later. We haven’t talked since.

  I remember meeting Mitch and the only things that stand out are that he had fucked-up teeth and that he’s a born-again Christian.

  Strangely the e-mail doesn’t surprise me that much. It doesn’t bother me at first, but then I realize the concrete reality of the situation is that I will never fuck her again. I immediately turn off my computer and jerk off to memories of fucking Jenna in the ass in her parents’ bed, her jerking me off as I shoot a load on her face, fucking her in her parents’ swimming pool while they were inside with a prayer group, every load I ever shot down her throat, and the night I took her virginity. I try to convince myself that this is the last time I will ever think of Jenna. I immediately know I’ll think about her again if for no other reason than she was the first girl I ever fucked in the ass, and that is one of my favorite memories.

  chapter seven

  I Don’t Believe in Destiny

  I’m walking back to my apartment through Westwood after having just come from the gym. As I pass a record store a Tori Amos poster catches my eye. I remember a girl in college who fucked me a few times because she saw my roommate’s copy of a Tori Amos album lying on the floor and thought it was mine. She thought I was a sensitive guy who listened to that type of shit and to my surprise gave some of the best head I’ve ever had. I always kind of felt guilty for never paying Tori back.

  Past the poster, through the window, I see something and almost shit my pants. Alyna the plane girl is working behind one of the registers. I decide to buy a fucking Tori Amos album.

  As I walk in, I’m immediately hit with a wave of panic. I don’t know if I should act like I remember her from the plane or if I shouldn’t. What should I do if she remembers me? I busy myself by walking over to a listening station, but it’s broken.

  I browse the DVD section.

  Fuck it, I walk up to the counter, straight to her.

  “Do you guys have a new release section or something?”

  “Yeah, it’s over there.”

  I walk over in the direction she pointed without a doubt in my mind that she remembers me. I wander around for a few minutes, away from the new releases, until I find some Tori Amos CDs. I take one, pretend to look around at some other shit and see if I can catch her checking me out. I can’t.

  I go back up to the register and toss the disc on the counter. She picks it up and looks at it, then looks at me.

  “Are you really into this?”

  I don’t know what the fuck to say. “Uh, yeah, I like her stuff, why?”

  “All of her music sounds the same.”

  “Whose doesn’t?”

  “Good point.”
/>
  She rings me up and that’s our first conversation.

  That night Casey comes over and sees the unopened CD lying on my couch.

  “I never knew you liked Tori.”

  She unwraps the CD and starts playing it. I wonder if she ever fucked a guy based on his musical preference.

  Later that night she tells me that she’s just not in the mood for sex. For the first time since we’ve started fucking, this doesn’t bother me. Casey curls up next to me and falls asleep in my arms without touching my dick at all and it doesn’t bother me. I wonder what Alyna’s ass looks like when you fuck her doggie style and spread it apart a little bit, and I fall asleep.

  chapter eight

  Casey’s New Diet

  We’re at Johnnies New York Pizzeria on Sunset because it’s one of Casey’s favorite places to eat. To be fair, the rolls are fucking amazing, and we did see Lara Flynn Boyle there once. So I’m content.

  Casey’s retelling me a joke she says she got forwarded to her by her Groundlings teacher. The same joke was sent to me by Casey herself a few days ago in an e-mail that explained she had come up with the joke herself, which I knew to be untrue even then because it had already been forwarded to me by my mom.

  Nonetheless, Casey is butchering the joke, and even though I already know what’s coming, I let her continue, and when she retells me the punch line, slightly botched, I laugh convincingly enough to assure a decent prefuck blow job tonight.

  After what seems like a fucking eternity of her telling a drawn-out story about losing her dad’s credit card in the Beverly Center Gap, Casey finally gets up to go to the bathroom. Just as she leaves, the waiter puts our plates down, giving me the perfect opportunity to make my move.

  About a month and a half ago I was watching some late-night TV after having jerked off twice in a row to a videotape I found in my closet of me fucking my high school girlfriend, Katy. Flipping through the channels, I was blessed with an infomercial for a product called Bloussant.

  Bloussant is a pill taken daily that is guaranteed to enlarge tits by at least one cup size. Seventy-four dollars and fourteen business days later my own two-month supply of Bloussant arrived in the mail. I crushed up all the pills into a powder that I’ve been mixing into as many of Casey’s meals as I can. I’ve been doing this for about a month and so far the results could be better.

  I decide to increase her dosage and spoon out two heaping mounds of the stuff from the Ziploc Baggie I have in my right back pocket. An old guy sitting next to me notices but doesn’t give any reaction. I mix it in the best I can and decide it would be a good move to put a third spoonful in her Diet Coke.

  I’m concentrating too hard on making sure the Bloussant is completely dissolved to notice that Casey’s come back from the bathroom and is standing at the table watching me stir her drink.

  She says, “What’re you doing?”

  Something quick, nonchalant, believable: “I thought I saw a fly or something in your drink.”

  “Then I’ll just get the waiter to bring me a new one when he comes back.”

  “No, no. You don’t need to do that. There wasn’t really a fly. I just thought there was. It must have been the ice. C’mon, sit down, let’s dig in.”

  She looks at me like I’m semi-insane and for a split second I wish I was so I could be honest enough with her to tell her that I’ve been slipping an unproven breast-enhancing drug into her food and drink because I think her tits are too small and I was stirring her Diet Coke to make sure it had completely dissolved. But her look fades as she sits down, spreads her napkin across her lap, and takes a huge bite of fettuccine Alfredo–Bloussant. Her reaction to a strange taste is nonexistent.

  I grab her tits much more than I normally would that night as we fuck in an attempt to feel any kind of progress at all. She says, “Hey, calm down, they’ll last longer if you don’t rip them off.” I’m surprised at how genuinely funny I think this is while my dick’s buried in her pussy. But the distraction’s not enough to keep me from thinking that at her current increased dosage, I only have enough Bloussant left for about a week and a half. If I don’t see better results by then, I’ll have to buy two more shipments and further increase her intake. This may mean I’ll be forced to take up cooking to learn how to mask the taste.

  some chapter

  Communication Is the Foundation of Any Good Relationship

  In Casey’s car on the way to the beach I’m staring out the window wondering if Alyna knows how to suck cock when Casey starts the following conversation with me:

  Casey says, “Yesterday I get this e-mail from Lem. He asks me if I was invited to Eliza’s party. And, of course, I was, but he wasn’t. So I e-mail him back that I was. Then he e-mails me back and asks if I can forward him the invitation just so he can see who was invited. I mean, what is he thinking? So I e-mail back that I’d forward it to him, but I told him if he doesn’t get invited he can’t go. You know, like don’t use this e-mail that I’m about to forward you as an invitation if you don’t get one yourself. Then he e-mails me back that he’s all pissed off at me because how dare I think that he would try to come to a party that he wasn’t invited to and blah, blah, blah—and I’m trying to IM with Nancy at the same time to see what she’s wearing to the party, but his e-mails keep popping up. I was so afraid I was accidentally going to send him an e-mail about what he’s wearing to the party after I pretty much already told him not to come. I couldn’t believe he got so mad when I told him not to show up unless he got his own invitation. Who does that? Who comes to a party without an invitation? I mean, he shouldn’t be surprised that he doesn’t get invited to things. He just doesn’t know what it’s all about, you know? I mean, can you believe that?”

  I say, “Huh-uh.”

  She says, “Then he sends me another e-mail where he’s mad because Joan got invited and he didn’t. I mean, of course Joan’s going to get invited. That doesn’t mean he is. You know, it’s like he thinks Greg still owes him something or something. If he wasn’t so socially retarded he might get invited to more parties. And plenty of people think that, but it’s like, who’s going to be the one to tell him? So anyway, the last e-mail he sends me is all like crazy and pissed off about the fact that he hasn’t been invited to the last two parties and he asked me to e-mail Eliza and ask her to e-mail him an invitation. Can you believe that?”

  I say, “Huh-uh.”

  She says, “I didn’t even write him one back. If he’s that desperate to go to her party, then he can ask her himself. Can you imagine me e-mailing her to ask if she’ll invite Lem to her party? Oh, yeah, and he asks me if I have Shawna’s phone number. Hello, Shawna moved to New York like four months ago. If you don’t have her number, it’s because she doesn’t want you to have it. I mean, seriously, learn to take a hint. And he sends me this thing that he sent to like thirty other people about his stupid jazz trio playing somewhere in North Hollywood. North Hollywood, can you believe that?”

  I say, “Huh-uh.”

  She says, “Who plays in North Hollywood? Nobody good. I’m sure nobody’ll go. I kind of feel sorry for him. But it’s like it’s his own fault, you know. He just doesn’t get the whole thing. So then I send Eliza an e-mail saying basically watch out for an e-mail from Lem inviting himself to her party. He’s been asking around about why he wasn’t invited. Then she e-mails me back saying that Lem already called her at work and wanted to know what the deal was—if Eliza had lost his e-mail address or something. She told him that she was sorry and she must have lost his e-mail otherwise he would have been invited, but the party was only open to the first fifty people who RSVPed because her place is kind of small. Then she told him that she’d definitely make sure he was on the list for her next party, but there’s no way. Now he’ll never get invited to anything again because everybody knows that he tried to invite himself to this party. I just—I mean, can you imagine being like that?”

  I say, “Huh-uh.”

  An old No Doubt song c
omes on the radio. She doesn’t say anything while it plays. I think about Alyna’s ass and what she’s like after sex. When the song’s over Casey says, “Oh, yeah, my sister had her baby yesterday and my parents bought me a ticket to go home and see her. So I’ll be gone for a few days next week.”

  I say, “That’s great.”

  chapter nine

  Burbank Strip Club

  I’m at Todd’s house in Toluca Lake. We’ve been playing Madden for a few hours and drinking heavily. After his fourth defeat he says, “Dude, let’s go see some titties.”

  Twenty minutes later we’re driving over some train tracks at a nondescript location in Burbank and pulling into the parking lot of a strip club I never knew existed.

  We sit down, order the first of our two-drink minimum and look to stage one, where a moderately attractive girl with no ass grinds her crotch in the air to the beat of a far-past-its-prime Limp Bizkit song.

  I say, “I think I’m going to ask that girl out.”

  “That girl from the record store?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like on a date?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I think about her constantly.”

  “Do what you gotta do.”

  Two strippers, both far below par as strippers go, approach us about some lap dances. I’m hesitant, but then they explain their rates.

  This pudgy Asian stripper says, “You get three songs for twenty dollars.”

  I say, “Why so cheap?”

  Her partner, a pock-faced white girl with some kind of Scandinavian accent, says, “It’s three-for-one night.” Then she leans in and licks my ear. I’m almost repulsed by the idea of a three-for-one rate on lap dances, but the bitch is already sitting in my lap. Fuck it.

  The pock-faced white girl has her ass in my face while the chubby Asian girl rubs her tits on Todd’s head.