30.11.08

Chapter 13

What’s in a New York Taco?

04/26/07

And I’m with my psychiatrist. A nutjob. A quack. And I’m talking about my sexual experiences—like I always do, every Thursday, for the last two years. And I still haven’t slept. I’m going into great detail about the lesbian I screwed.

“And I grazed her nipples with my right hand and I graced her nape with my left and—” I say to him while reenacting my eventful night using hand gestures.
But he’s somewhere else.

And he interrupts, as usual, “Have you ever heard of a Dirty Sanchez?”
“What?” I ask even though I know exactly where this conversation is going.
“A Dirty Sanchez—it’s when you stick your index finger up a said girl’s asshole, pull it out, and smear the remnants across her upper lip so that she looks like a dirty Mexican. Have you ever heard of it?”

Now I’m confused and insulted and just slightly disgusted. I’m thinking about this plague, this grassroots phenomenon of crude sexual acts that has shook the foundations of male-to-male conversation.

And he continues in an eager child-like voice, “What about hogging? Hogging?” he repeats like an unset microwave timer. “It’s when you get really desperate and go to a bar with the intention of finding the fattest bitch there. Then you ride that bitch like a beat-up Harley.”
And I can’t take it anymore. This is just absurd. And I’m thinking—
Did he write his thesis on crude sexual acts?

And I’m sick of this “I know everything there is to know about knowing” bullshit. Therapists are just unduly curious motherfuckers, prying bastards, meddlesome in nature. Gossipers. They’re interrogators with a PhD and a cozy couch.

And people, people are just drunk with vanity. They’re just egocentric sons and daughters of bitches. They pay this Paul Pry two hundred bucks an hour just so they can spend the next sixty minutes talking about themselves and their problems. And they truly believe that this quack really gives two squirts of ejaculatory about what they have to say.

Truth is: no one gives a shit about anything anyone else has to say. Every dialogue, in essence, is just a collective monologue. Two people can have a discussion but neither one is really listening to what the other is saying. We’re all just biting our tongues, waiting our turn to speak.
Hiccups are just God’s way of telling us to shut the fuck up.

And this pundit sits in his great big thinking chair and drowns the silence with such pubescent vulgarities. He thinks he’s God.
Let’s see how much this Mahatma Prick really knows…
“Yeah, well, have you heard of the Dog in the Bathtub? It’s when you attempt to stick your nuts in a girl’s ass. They name it that because it’s as hard as keeping a dog in a tub while you’re trying to give it a bath.”

And he leans in and smiles something awful. His teeth crisscross as if they’re all just fighting each other for space in his mouth—a war on property, civil in spirit, just like any other war.
He accepts my challenge.

“Well what about a Donkey Punch?” he says and covers his mouth as he chuckles—at least he’s considerate. “It’s when you bang a girl doggy style and then moments before you come, you stick your dick in her ass, and then punch her in the back of the neck. The blow to the neck will, essentially, stun the muscles in her ass, which will constrict the penis and give you a tremendous orgasmic experience when you ejaculate.”

He plays dirty that crazy pseudo savant. And I’m thinking.
And I’m responding, “What about The Tortoise doctor? Have you heard of that one?” And I chuckle the same way, covering my mouth mockingly, and say, “It’s when you eat out someone who doesn't have pubic hair yet. They call it that because you got there before the hare did.”
And he sees I mean business. So he’s searching his mental medicine cabinet for something good, something that will put me out. Comatose.

“What about The Phantom? You know The Phantom.” And I do, but I continue to sit quietly as he says, “It’s where you have the lights off and you’re fucking a girl from behind and then you pull out and have a friend sneak in and continue what you started. While your buddy is taking her up the rear, you run outside and knock on the window, in an attempt to get your partner’s attention.”
And the fact that he knows this act does make him a worthy opponent.

I lean in towards him and say, “Well, what about the Compton Gangbang? It’s when you meet a girl at the bar, she tells you she has a boyfriend, but she ends up going home with you anyway for a one-night stand, you know, a quick in-out action. But the thing is—” And I use elaborate hand gestures as I describe this act to him, and say, “When you take her to your place, you have your friends wait outside your bedroom door. Just when she's about to get off, have your friends barge into the room and just beat the shit out of her. Teach her not to fuck around, you know?”
And he’s laughing now, that orgy in his mouth just flaunting its promiscuity. But the battle’s not over. Far from it.

And he’s says, “This one’s for when you want things to get really hot, The Flaming Amazon.” And his voice gets louder; it stinks of excitement. “It’s when you’re screwing some chick, and right when you’re about to come, you pull out and quickly grab the nearest lighter and set her pubes on fire, then extinguish the flames with your load.”
He’s stepping up his game.

Now I search my mental medicine cabinet and I counter, “Yeah, well I’m sure you’ve tried this one seeing as though your entire paycheck revolves around what people say while on this couch. Couchbombing.” And I look at him now with excitement. “Oh, you know what couchbombing is,” I say mockingly. “It’s when you fill a small Ziploc sandwich bag with Crisco, or whatever lubricant you most desire, and place it between the cushions of the couch. You then proceed to fuck the couch as if it were a woman. Best thing is, you don’t need to buy it dinner first. I’m not sure if I should be sitting here anymore you sick fuck.”
And he’s starting to crumble.

“Yeah, well what about The Patty Cake? So, while you're nailing some girl doggie style and your friend is getting blown at the same time, you get a quick game of patty cake going, see how many games you can get in before one of you busts a load. From what I know about your friends, you’ve probably tried it. You gay fuck.”

Now it’s getting personal. His voice gets raspier, his words more malicious.
And I continue without showing any apprehension, “Now I know you get lonely and desperate sometimes doctor, you know a degree can only get you so far with women—so I know you’ve tried the Jedi Mind Trick. You’ve definitely slipped a Mickey in some girl’s drink, and then fucked her in your car, the whole time repeating, ‘I’m not fucking you…I’m not fucking you.’ You dirty whore you!”

And he’s thinking. For a while. And I can tell he’s running out of material.
“What about The Screwnicorn?” he says reluctantly. “You know, when a les puts a strap-on dildo onto her forehead and then attacks her partner like a crazy unicorn.”
And I’m thinking—
How Lame!

And I’m sifting through useless crude acts. And I’m thinking of a Hot Karl, or a Cleveland Steamer, a Cincinnati Bowtie, or a Blumpkin. And then I have it.

“What about the Lorena Bobbit. You know, when a girl takes it up the ass and squeezes the muscles as tight as she can, and then proceeds to jump up and down violently, thrashing her ass sadistically, in an effort to rip your dick off. I’m sure you know that one.”
And he’s thinking. And he’s pausing.
And I continue, “What about The Juanita Special Bean Dip? Oh this is a good one. While your whore of a wife rides you like a mechanical bull, you insert your thumb into her poop chute, make sure to really fiddle around in there, find some buried treasure, then stick your brown thumb into her mouth, and slip it under her tongue so she can get the full, robust taste of the Juanita "special" Bean Dip. Oh now that tastes divine!”

And he’s utterly disgusted.
“You know I had a friend who got seriously injured trying a Hole-in-One?”
“Hole-in-One?” he asks.
“Yeah, he was attempting to stick his dick in his own asshole, but he got a boner and accidently sat down on his erection. All the Viagra in the world can’t save the Pied Piper. What a tragedy,” I say as I shake my head, eagerly selling the lie like a Girl Scout sells cookies.

And I can see it in his eyes. He’s waving the white flag.
And he looks at his watch, “I believe our time is up here. I’ll see you again next week,” he says, his words fighting their way past his cataclysmic aperture.
I leave his office and head towards the F train. I’m thinking about every single crude sexual act my sick mind can come up with. I’m trying to figure out which ones I can actually pull off. And I finally decide on the perfect act, one that bathes in glorious degradation, one that creates perspective.

So I go to the market and buy some supplies.