The last time I measured my penis a few years ago. I was still growing. I was a teenager. It was 6 inches. I figured by the age of 21 I could squeeze another 1/4 inch, possibly 1/2... 6 1/2. But that was a stretch.
Without girlfriend, without job, without life, I jerked-off all the time, mainly at night to pass the time. I slept during the day. At 2 in the morning I jerked-off to whatever. No money, no car, just me stroking to the sound of the clock ticking.
One boring night, like all the others, I jerked-off twice to a one, Jules Asner of E's News Daily around midnight. A somewhat prissy broad, but being on TV will do that, especially if you're a newscaster. Ironic though, Jules used to host E's Wild On. Everybody fucking in a smoke-filled club and dancing, covered only with paint, on some beach resort right in front of a complete stranger's camera and Jules would just stand there, making faces at some horny Greek's tits. Wouldn't join in. Never once got naked. She would drink her little mixed drink and maybe laugh, but never ripped off her tight island dress, revealing thumb-sized nipples of cherry and a tiny patch of luscious brown sod that matched her hair atop that 6-foot in shoes head, aching to be penetrated by a dark microphone and an overly tanned British tourist in La Hotel de Slutte of the French Rivera. But that's life! The hot ones who need to get nude and suck your dick just because you watched her show at 12 in the morning never do. It's always the same whores-- dyed blonde and turkey-skinned pussy. Not Jules, not the girl next door. She just gave the news with her shiny apricot lipstick, knee-highed boots to cover up those crossed poles of flesh, making faces, never knowing that losers whack-off to her. If she lived next door, I'd rape her... But I don't live in LA.
I found a can of Pepsi in my kitchen, about a few hours old, a tad flat. Brought it upstairs to my dirty room and drank it. My room, namely the pillows, smell like old ballsweat. They've been the only thing that has stayed the same in this ever-changing, but slow-paced, "life" I lead. Well, I don't lead it. I have no goddamn clue to what's happening. Things just happen and I wake up with something new to do or learn. I could just buy a new cleaner to absorb my ballsweat odor, but what's the point? It'll all come back anyway.
Drank another gulp and read a few stories. Bukowski. He was an author. He didn't give a dog's-cunt to what people said-- as long as he got his liquor. He was my mentor these past months, a little late though. My mind was already fucked through the ear from too much porn, real and animated women, my own shit floating in stagnant urine, bitchy teachers who think I'm offensive, and botched religions who say they understand and can help, but cast the first stone. And that stone normally hits me in the nuts.
Jesus bled from his head and side, I bleed from my "head" and left testicle. Some would like to have their cock swelled up like cucumber wrapped in pantyhose, but not me. It would only take more energy to get off from the toilet after crapping chunks of my self-confidence and my fading love for the world. And I need that energy to live. Plus, the big penis would go to waste. Nothing to stick it in besides from a stinky body-pillow folded in two.
I listened to some music. Fast. Heavy. Satanic. Kept me awake.
It was past 2:15AM. No more soda and the music ended. If I was going to get out of bed I wanted to make the most of it. I got up and dug through a bucket of random stuff on my dresser. I pulled out a protractor with a ruler etched on the bottom. Then I walked over to my VCR and popped in a bootleg copy of my father's only porno, "The Curse of the Catwman"(It wasn't about the "Batman" Catwoman). I laid in bed, got the sock I use to soak up my semen from under my bed, and pulled down my boxers to my ankles. The sock was the 5th one I've gone through since I started using them about a year and a half ago. It was crusty, yellowish-tan from old jizz stains and slightly moist in places from the Asner jerk-off that occurred a couple hours prior.
I turned on the TV and hit play. I was at the only female masturbation scene in the whole movie. It was 3/4 through it. Her clothes were off, except for the white, lacy panties she was using to pull up the crotch into the crevasse of her pussy. Grabbing her left breast with one hand and rubbing the lips of a beautiful vagina, beautiful in porno terms, compared to some ugly blender pussies (looks like they were grinded up) that you always see, with the other. Her body was wetter than her hole. Might've been fake sweat, I can never tell. Still her pussy wasn't that worked up. Maybe if she would've stuck a finger or two in it, perhaps it would've dripped, but clit-polishing and pube-pushing satisfied her. Hey, it satisfied me.
The actress, hmm, in the movie, hmm, reminded me of a lovely, heavenly girl I once knew, once loved, hmm. Jessica Queen. You can't make up a name like that. She was taller than me, but we didn't care, she wasn't tall enough to not be able to hold my hand or kiss me. Dark, thick eyebrows with long, thick brown hair and eyes to match. I love brunettes and for some reason she loved me too. Us never making anything of that was a tragedy. If I acted on our shared feelings maybe I wouldn't have been jerking-off alone at 2:30AM every night. But that's what makes a sorry life. You're not allowed to have it any other way.
