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.
