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"Can we, as a country, all agree

xmag.com : October 2002: What's Your Fucking Problem?

 

This Month:
MY FUCKING PROBLEM
 

Oooooh, yeahhh! I'm gonna slide onto your mouth like an oily bicycle seat, grip the back of your head and push it against me. I'll swing tiny circles with my hips and fill your mouth with salty girlbutter while I suckle your long, knobby fingers. Get 'em aaaallll wet to shiny spit trace trails around my nipples, then before they dry, get one wiggly digit in my ass.

Mmmmm...yeah? Sound good? Spoil me, Daddy...I'll arch back and start bucking and trembling on your face, snapping like a wet towel over you....Are you gonna cum, too, baby? Yeah...pull it, you fuck...faster...let me spit in my hand and help you...OH...there you go, Daddy! YEAH! Close your eyes tight and roll back your head! You're all flex and impulse, and I'm gonna watch you explode into the big, bright outer limits. Yeah! And that's how they'll find you. With your dick in your hand, a retarded grimace on your wrinkled mug, and a screwdriver stuck in your Adam's apple.

Mmmmm...Yeah, I'll punch it in right as you're shooting your trickling grasp at youth onto your sagging gray-haired paunch. Are you a bleeder, Daddy? Mmmmm...you look like one. Oooh! That makes me soooooo horny...Sound good, baby? Mmmm yeah! Let's go.

That's what I should've said.

Instead, I looked around the restaurant helplessly for my voice that had suddenly blown away.

He stared at me over his caprese salad, waiting. His half-smile slid full into amusement. He was loving this. His eyes twinkled like his San Pellegrino water. I saw a glint of "Ha-ha-HA! Not so tough NOW are we, little rock 'n' roll girl?" I was a pretty pretty butterfly and he held the pin to my brittle black thorax, ready to crunch it through to the board.

Fuck. How did this happen? My mind raced over my clothes: not-too-tight jeans, old army boots, snug white T-shirt...not slutty or suggestive, just rock 'n' roll enough for me, yet cleaned-up enough to talk business over a power lunch. Where did this whole thing turn?

The roar of the restaurant went into a muffled hum as if from another room. You motherfucker. Are you laughing at me?

I had swaggered into this meeting, cocksure as always. This was supposed to be so easy. We had met the week before at a performance my band had done for one of his favorite charities. He seemed in total awe of me...a little afraid, even. Exactly how it should be. Easy. He loved the band and wanted to help in any way he could.

I figured he was dying to come down from his giant redwood-and-cedar feng shui Marin County mansion and be seen with a real live unwashed mass...me. Maybe he'd get to talk about how he was really a rebel once. Grew his hair, pierced his ear, infuriated his parents, etc. He'd get to say things like,

"Life isn't just about money" and all that. He wanted to get up inside the whole "poor" thing. I would let him gas on and on about how "alike we all are," then we could talk business. He said he wanted to invest....I know he used the word "invest" on the phone while arranging this meeting.

"I promise--no rough stuff," he offered, still smiling that superior cootchie-cootchie-coo smirk as if to soothe me. I looked down and chuckled some silly understanding of his statement, trying not to flip out, puke, or attack this millionaire, father-of-three, philanthropist fuck. My eyes locked onto my steak knife.

Under the knife were my papers. My breakdowns of investments and turnaround times...merchandise ratios, point spreads and whatnot. I had stayed up all night poring over the numbers, fighting my mild retardation with all things mathematical along with my dyslexia to prepare for this presentation. I really tried to do it right. God, we really needed the money. "No rough stuff." I chuckled again, weakly, now fighting tears.

When he said he could give me five thousand dollars, I had launched into presentation mode. I stressed what a risky investment music was, that he wouldn't get a fast return, if any...but we'd give him fifty cents on the dollar if we broke. I pattered on about the difference between mechanical and songwriting royalties and blah blah blah.

When he cut me off, waving his hand to gently hush me, cooing down from so high up, I'm surprised he didn't pat me on top of my head like little Cindy Lou Hoo, who was no more than two, "I will give YOU five thousand dollars...to spend the night with me."

A dry burning ripping pain started in my middle that was somehow connected to my tongue. Rage was spinning in me like an unbalanced load of wet laundry, but it wouldn't come out...it just kicked and stabbed at me from inside. My head seethed. Rough stuff? Old man, were I to take your offer, I'd be sure to leave you with some injuries you'd have a bitch of a time 'splainin' to the missus how you got 'em golfing. A bent little maniac voice curled into my consciousness, saying, I'll take your five grand for one night, Baby. I got your all-access pass to the unattainable right here. I'll do it for the chance to scare the power out of you...to watch those twinkling little hostile-takeover eyes go flat with the realization that you might not make it out of the expensive hotel room you got for your little conquest. I could kill you and make it look like those embarrassing masturbation accidents that look like a twisted suicide...only everyone would know you were just jerking off. Jerking off with your Italian leather belt around your neck and photos of young Korean boys in your soft white hand.

SAY SOMETHING!!! I sat and smiled meekly, desperate to get out of there with a hair of dignity if at all possible. I shrieked at myself from my head like someone yelling at the dumb bitch in a horror movie who's walking around backwards in the spooky basement in her underpants. "GET OUT, STUPID!!!!"

"Well, I've got your number...and, um, I'll let you know. Mmmmkay? Thanks for lunch" was the best I could manage.

Pathetic. I had nothing to say. No poison darts, clever barbs, or even a "Oh, and by the way, fuck you." My prized Ginsu tongue lay flat in my mouth like a wood spoon. I went out to my car, threw my papers in the passenger seat, and cried like a girl.

He knew he was going home dry that day. What he didn't know was that he had planted a Jack and the Beanstalk-sized seed of blooming bile flowers. Revenge. Try and BUY ME, bitch? OK. I stepped on that tack, I hopped around in shock and pain for your amusement...yes, it was very funny...but I'll pull it out of my foot, and glue it to a baseball bat and come back. MMmmm...sound good, baby? You look like a bleeder.

 

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