Perfect Woman: Fairuza Balk

A pleasure like breaking light bulbs, burning dollar bills, peeling dead skin... I see her wretchedness and that is her curse, and whatever sweetness lies beneath will be throttled away during climax, smeared on her face, and beaten into her hips. She bears the burden of the sweltering, raunchy ox, and we find her meat to be sweet and tender.

Self Improvement: Water

Insufferable water. It is pompous rather than pure, babbling it's way down from the mountainsides, pooling in the most inconvenient places, engendering rust and decay. No matter one's situation water will find the form most appropriate to find your ill favor. Beneath an awning? Fogs and mists will spittle in your face. Walking to work? Your feet will be mired in oil-slicked puddles. And most loathsome of all is it's tendency to fall from above, rain! What a cruel joke, splattering the lenses of your glasses, trickling down the temple and into the ear, finding its way through vent and seam... but alas, our accursed bodies are mainly constituted of the stuff, and daily I must pour it's base formlessness down my quivering throat and try, oh how I try, to respect it and embrace my need...

On a Date: Pre-Marital Sex

We had been kissing and fondling but when I began to fumble with the buttons on her jeans she pushed me away, proclaiming, confidently, that she was saving herself for marriage. When I moved to the other side of the couch she became embarrassed.

"I mean, I might have sex if I've been with a guy for a long time. Maybe."

I got up to look at her book case, saying, "You might have trouble getting a guy to wait around."

"I don't think that's true at all."

"I wouldn't wait around."

"Then you're obviously not the right guy for me."

I was impressed by the books on her shelves. I recognized some, wanted to borrow others...  I turned back to her and she crossed her arms.

She asked, "You really can't date a girl unless she'll have sex?"

"I think we're at an impasse," I said, and I meant it with the utmost respect and regret.

Perfect Woman: Yulia Tymoshenko

To look you straight in the eye is to dream, and that dream would spell the weakness of man. Beneath your golden halo lies a burning ember cut of lipstick density, a sexual singularity, inside of which the stiff legged mutterings of fat-gut, flame belching becomes a cloudy grain of sand to flick with a painted nail. Who knows the unearthly motion of those smooth tendons hinging at the base of her inner thighs?

Self Improvement: Painting

I was advised to take up a hobby to relax after work. I enrolled in Basics of Painting through the LACMA membership office. I purchased a set of paints and fine brushes of all sorts. The teacher was a bright and cheery woman who recognized a latent talent in me that should absolutely be explored. She examined my canvas as I prepared to lay down paints over my pencil sketch.

"What a beautiful dog! Is it a golden retriever?"

I told her it was a horse.

"Oh, of course! I like its hat."

"It isn't wearing a hat."

She excused herself. The fact is, it was wearing a hat and I felt extremely relaxed.

On a Date: Thick Girl

She was drinking something with whipped cream on top and it couldn't be denied: she was kind of fat. I cursed under my breath because I had agreed to this blind date as a favor. I had been duped. I considered escaping but the thought of standing up a woman was, surprisingly, more than I could bear at the moment.

I sat at a table near her and considered her enormous cleavage, cradled in a low-cut blouse. They were perfect in their own right, with a sort of hefty softness, they were extremely attractive, the penultimate orbs. I looked at my hands; I would have to cup them together just to support one of them... A phone rang and I looked up as she reached between her breasts and lifted a phone out from inside. I gasped and she looked at me while answering her call.

"Hello."

She returned to her whipped-cream drink.

"No, he's not here yet."

And he never was.

Perfect Woman: Yukimi Nagano

His own divine recipe, fruits picked from every land, once brought together and purified of grit... he had a nose. A nose, whose curves and swellings make the hips and breasts rote. Oh! Were I a granule I'd slip up into either nostril and, once out of sight amongst the silken walls, peel open a brimming membrane and drown myself inside...

Self Improvement: Giving Blood

The invigorating practice of blood letting, which, unfortunately, lost the favor of the masses in the 19th century, is alive and well at your local Red Cross. I have found that allowing my veins a warming confession of 1 liter per month keeps me feeling fit and in good spirits. I love to spend an afternoon reclining in the phlebotomist's chair, swaddled with blankets as the warm rush leaves my arm and collects in the bag below, a rich and swirling broth which nurses check occasionally with a squeeze, allowing me, amidst the faint scent of iodine and bleach, a glimpse past their drooping blouses, at sturdy breasts cupped in sweat yellowed bras... I love the shaky uncertainty of my trek to the snack table, to sup upon fig newtons and orange juice, always tempted to allow myself a fainting spell, so the strong armed assistants can carry me to the recovery cots, where I can peacefully cultivate new blood cells in the hive like hum of the fluorescent light... What sorrow to shuffle out into the sun, pathetic bandages around my wound a reminder of the unbearable wait until my next purge, and renewed vigilance against pleasure crushing anemia. With the exception of last month's embarrassingly leaky tourniquet at the Apple Store, I've had no reason to believe this is not an exercise in which I will find consistent benefit.

On a Date: Theatrics

Her place was a single room with a bed in the middle, a dirty little kitchenette, and candles on everything. When I arrived at the beginning of the night she let me in wearing a silk robe, then she went behind a folding screen to change. There was a lamp back there, and her silhouette danced against the screen.

"How theatrical." I said, and swallowed hard.

"Come help zip me up."

I zipped her up, and the dress was tight. She said she'd been gaining weight. I said I hadn't noticed.

I sat on the edge of her bed as she brought out a bowl of crushed ice, a bottle of gin, and lemon juice. She drank quickly and much and was always active, swinging her arms about, gnashing her tiny white teeth, with a face always in expression, never dormant. She lit incense and sweat beaded on her forehead, her bangs turned into moist wisps, and her eyes became gin weighted. I asked her to put on music and she danced over to her stereo, picking out a record. 

"You like Helene le Grand?" She asked.

"I don't know."

"She makes me feel like I don't have anything to say that hasn't been said before."

"How unpleasant."

"No, it's very grounding."

She sat down and gulped her gin, then she closed her eyes as the music came on. She knew I was staring at her, and when Helene le Grand began to sing, so did she. She sang with a low voice that reverberated in her rib cage... I tried not to be uncomfortable and tapped my foot to the song, like an imbecile. The song spiraled up into the incense smoke, and my date's voice began to tremble, and suddenly, she began to cry.

My heart began to race and she kept singing, tears flowing down her cheek, salting her gin. She hiccuped with emotion, so touched by the song. I wiped her tears away, to play along, and I figured it was a good time to kiss her, so I leaned over and tried to match her passion with some of my own, and even though I knew she was bad news, unstable, I wanted to see how things played out, at least for a few nights, because in the end, mistakes are the only real fun to be had...

Perfect Woman: Christine Lagarde

A swinging weight that defies your sex. Shake off the flakes of rust from your lips, your eyes, your impetuous nose. Russia sends icebreakers to the north pole, nuclear engine exhausts burning the ice into rivulets of glaring clarity. And here am I, with nothing to offer but warm, and forgiving hands, which are ready to forgive and remember whichever torn and thickened hides they cup.

Self Improvement: Accepting Children

A boy of 10 was wiggling around in line for Space Mountain at Disneyland. I watched as he put his hand down the back of his pants, scratched at his grubby anus, and then slyly smelled his fingers. His father asked what he was doing and he replied, "it itches."

Later, as we boarded the ride, I watched as the boy's father told him to stop biting his nails... those same untrimmed nails that had been clawing at that most wretched hole, that stained drawstring, to rake at its burning deposits of fecund cheese, only to deposit this stinking, gland-moistened pollen right back in his own mouth...

One day I must try to at least accept the possibility of taking part in procreation- if not for the species, than to promote adequate disciplinary action by example.

On a Date: Sexting

Text conversation, 2:38 a.m.

well???

What will we do if I come over?

what do u want?

Will you bare yourself to me?

stupid

Will you grant me access to your fuming loins?

u talk like a wizard

I want to fuck you.

yea tell me how

I want to hold your arms down and pound you... raw?

question??

Is raw acceptable?

yea

I want to squeeze your tits in my hands, sucking on your hard nipples!

mmmm yea

Will you take my penis in your hand?

i want ur hard cock in my hands

So you will accept it in your hands?

come fuck me!!!
I want to lick your pussy.
u like my pussy babe??

I want to fuck you from behind, my balls slapping your cloven dainty.

come do it!!!

I want to thread my penis between your teeth.

is ur dick like floss??

I will continue fucking you from behind.

good babe i like that more

I see your puckering anus and take special note of it.

do u want to fuck my ass babe?

I am tempted, and so I look more closely.

ok

I venture to push my penis into it.
is it tight babe??
It is, but the sphincter soon accepts my entrance with a gaseous sigh.

no it doesn't!!

Feces begins to bubble around the base of my penis, the stench is oddly erotic.

ur fuckin gross

I remove my penis, coated with stool and I bowleggedly leave the room for analysis.

don't come over

Perfect Woman: Almie Rose

Oh! Cease your mourning and speak not in jest! Tear loose your blackened shrouds and soften that porcelain mask which keeps your bonne de 'Estonie for some man unfinished. Pray, end your vestal crime, grant your cloistered and lying lips a tactile freedom from your senses. Show more cleavage.

Self Improvement: Stubble

Each morning I am repulsed by those black and wiry specters which nightly rise from my face. There is no more keen a flavor as the scraping of a fresh razor against my cheek. Reaping the obscene field whose useless chaff I flick, hatefully, into the toilet. What glee, to then turn the razor upside down, and shear up now, against the grain, artfully slicing and pulling at those hairs too deeply rooted in their oiled shafts to feel the bite of the first pass. Finally, the controlled sting of scented lotions to the whistling barren of my now smooth jaws...

Henceforth, however, I will resist shaving on Sundays.

On a Date: Of Tongues and Teeth

The depressive fever that follows a ruined relationship had just broken its hold upon her, and she had awakened into the warm light of promiscuous opportunity. Now, only hours after meeting her, my penis had found its way into her mouth, and in the yellow light of her bedside lamp, I watched as her lipstick smudged more and more... To examine a girl's oral technique is to consider all the former inhabitants of her mouth. Every unsolicited flourish is an undeniable bond between her partners- each one having left behind his own proclivities in the form of an adopted pinch, or stroke, or pull... and so I decided to leave a bit of my own tastes scrawled upon the walls of her mouth. I noticed she spent too much time on the tip, a far less sensitive location than Cosmopolitan likes to proclaim. Also, her tongue seemed underused and I felt the occasional scrape of an errant incisor- but I couldn't re-write history in a day, so I decided to focus on her lack of handling. I took her unused hand and coaxed her into the appropriate motion which she quickly adopted. She looked up at me, our eyes met as teacher and student, and we both took our own pleasures in the learning experience.

Perfect Woman: Nastassja Kinski

Burning seeds of the father's fury, come to flower, as delicate pages with burnt edges. To be strangled by small hands, and churned by her iron hips. A Napoleon between sheets, a warm river stone heated by the grinding of the serpent's scales.

Self Improvement: Bitterness

True bitterness is a resentment borne of personal failure. It is an exhilarating change of pace.

On a Date: CPR

Walking to the restaurant for dinner, my date and I came across an unconscious homeless man in the middle of the sidewalk. I hopped over him but my date lingered near the body, concerned.

"I don't think he's breathing."

I used my phone to report it to the police and when that was done I tugged at my date's elbow to get her moving, but she resisted.

"We can't leave him here! By the time the police get around he might be dead!"

I looked down at the body.

"But we have reservations..."

She kneeled down and began yelling in his face.

"Can you hear me?!"

A crowd began to gather. My date pressed her ear to the man's chest and looked up at me gravely.

"He needs CPR," she said, and I stepped back.

The crowd murmured as she spread the man's peeling lips and swept his airway with her manicured finger. No blockages. She looked at me one last time and then put her mouth over his and breathed into his lungs. She applied chest compressions, her necklaces dangling over his fat gut. She licked her lips and continued with artificial respiration and this time the man began to sputter and gasp. The crowd cheered as my date wiped her mouth and the man vomited a little on the sidewalk. Shortly afterwards an ambulance arrived to take the man away, leaving me with my date, who was a hero.

We had dinner and I asked if we could postpone drinks for another night, then I walked her home. At her door she lingered for a kiss. I stared at her mouth and thought of the cesspool she had just pressed it against, that putrid throat which had shared her breath.

"Well, goodnight." I turned and began to walk away down her front steps.

"No kiss?" She asked.

I felt bad. I walked back up the steps and placed my hands on her hips, staring at her full, pink lips and knowing that they only appeared clean.

"I'm sorry. I can't."
"Is it because I gave CPR to the man on the sidewalk?"
"Yes."
"Well, I understand."

I said goodnight and walked down the steps as she called to me once more.

"Can I call you after I get tested for STDs and stuff?"

I considered the reliability of medical science. The exotic germs, overlooked by the limited annals of pathogenic taxonomy, which could have been allowed to thrive, unchecked, in the primordial conditions of that man's mouth...

"I don't think it would be a healthy choice."

Perfect Woman: Yo-Landi Vi$$er

Oh! Sweet chattering and entrancing little monkey. Lay me in golden beds of fallen leaves. Sprinkle my weary form with the nourishing dew of your body, and grant me those cosmetic flingings of your extraterrestrial feces...

Self Improvement: Public Affection

I hear the same complaint from every girl: I don't show enough affection in public. I have decided that I have been in the wrong and so I've compiled a list of affectionate gestures which I am willing to do in public:

• When we walk, I will place my hand on her shoulder.
• When we arrive at a restaurant/ bar, I will slide my hand down from her shoulder to the small of her back.
• When we meet new people, I will preface her name with "my." (e.g. "This is my Tiffany.")
• If we are seated in chairs, I will place my hand on her thigh.
• If we are seated in a booth, I will place my arm around her shoulders.
• If she needs to use the restroom, I will lay my hand on her purse until she returns.
• If group conversation dwindles, I will kiss her on the cheek. 
• On any given night in public, I will kiss her at least twice but not more than five times.
• If she offers me a sip of something, I will no longer wipe the rim of the glass first.

On a Date: Threesome

I didn't know how to kiss two girls at once. I felt obliged to kiss my date first, then I turned to her friend.

"You too?" I asked, and they giggled.

Soon we moved to the bed and the two women undressed and tended to eachother. I undressed myself and watched. I looked down at my penis and felt disadvantaged. I approached their writhing bodies and palmed an ass. I got on the bed and touched a boob. I wasn't sure where to enter, there were so many limbs. I looked at my date's vagina. Her friend's fingers were in it. No Vacancy. Hmm. I looked at her friend who was straddling my date's leg. I grabbed her hips and lifted them up. She didn't protest but I saw her give me a sidelong glance. I waved and smiled at her. She continued kissing and fingering my date, leaving her ass in the air where I had moved it. I got a condom from the bedside table and took my place at the helm. I unwrapped the condom and moved it towards... my flaccid, useless dick. Oh horror! I twiddled it about pathetically- no response. I frantically groped the girls' bodies in a desperate attempt to get hard, but the writing was on the wall. My penis, whether by nervousness or moral objection, would not take part in a threesome. 

"Well," I said, dressing, "I had a wonderful night."

Perfect Woman: Hsu Chi

Lanky and divine. Her lips ever-parted like a languorous fruit, ripened until splitting, threatens to swallow us into unseen constriction. Each eye-lash, a fluttering strand of Maybelline'd diatoms, spreading imperceptible dusts which, penetrating the pores of ones skin, imbue a temporary rapture of enslaving and manipulative intent.

Self Improvement: Women's Bowels

I've always had a profound discomfort with the bowel activities of women. When I share a bed with a woman, and find myself awakened in the night, she still sleeping beside me, I am racked with fear at the prospect of witnessing some unconscious release of gas. If she uses the restroom to ease her straining bowel, I avoid the toilet for six hours to spare myself even a nuance of lingering stench or a glimpse of specks in the porcelain bowl. How, though, can I ever share my life with a woman if I cannot reconcile her femininity with the natural activity of her asshole? As such, I've decided to face my fears through conditioning:

• Once bedmate falls asleep, I will gently press on her abdomen to induce flatulence, which I shall endure.
• After a girl has defecated, I will shut myself in the bathroom, and come to terms with her aromatic leavings.
• I will disable toilet without telling her, allowing me to confront the exactitudes of her shit (color, texture, volume).

On a Date: Never Touched Herself

I thought less of her when she said she'd never masturbated. I had already had sex with her on two occasions and prude she was not- it was solely the act of self-satisfaction from which she abstained. For my part, I've masturbated religiously since turning twelve and as such she became a foreign object to my mind. She had made her proclamation with such a dismissive confidence- as if I were wasting my time and my eternal soul upon such self-serving efforts... Perhaps there is an incredulity peculiar to sinners that makes us scoff at the righteous, for I was annoyed, offended, and felt she would never match me in sexual prowess and adventure. How can one please another without knowing how to please oneself?

I broke off our date for the following Saturday, and instead of being pleased by one who has never pleased herself, I pleased myself... and then watched Netflix.

Perfect Woman: The Child-Like Empress

Her emotive brow. Her upturned nose. Pouting lips. Perfect skin... This charming little imp is only child-like. That she is a fantastical being as old as time only slightly muddles the implied pedophilia. As a youth I roamed the orange groves with her frail, fevered form reclining upon the bosom of my mind - oh! untouched odalisque, such clouded desires, and the scent of fallen citrus...

Self Improvement: Eye Contact

The so-called "windows to the soul" are less exciting than the oily, peeling, hairy casement that is the face. I prefer to fixate on earlobes, nose tips, lips, teeth, chin clefts, moles, foreheads, sideburns, anything really, except for the eyes- those cloudy, fidgeting orbs which peer and pry into everyone's business... Nevertheless, I accept that many consider lack of eye-contact to be a sign of weakness or deception and as such I will henceforth stare, unblinking, into the eyes of all I encounter.

On a Date: Beauty in a Barren Waste

Work had brought me to a shit town in the New Mexico desert. The town and surrounding land was woefully flat. The high school was a collection of three squat buildings and a dead football field. The houses were rotting away, porches collapsing into the dust. The streets were vacant and those people I did see were a wretched collection of ugly, fat, genetically similar monsters... except for her.

She had taken out a loan to open the only "cafe" in the town. It was an old locksmith's shanty that stood on a corner surrounded by dirt. She had painted the building a hideous pistachio green. The place was empty so she sat with me while I had a coffee. She had been there her whole life. She said she liked Andy Warhol. She said her favorite book is Pride and Prejudice. She believed her cafe would bring money and culture to her disgusting hometown which was otherwise without industry, purpose, or hope. She was naive and pathetic and it broke my heart to see her beauty and potential wasted in this land of aimless mutants. I gave her my number and told her to look me up if she's ever in Los Angeles. She smiled and we shook hands, and as I left I prayed she'd never call, because outside of this place, her looks would pale and her simple mind would be lain bare. After all, a desert flower is only pretty because it's surrounded by dirt.

Perfect Woman: Amanda Knox

A rabid bitch hereto most faithful, as all men know, is hard to put down. Adorable thing and once beautiful baby, I seek your safety. I can calm your screams and mend your torn and bleeding gizzards? Weather your storms against my back for facing you is all too clear, as the weather will reveal. You crazy, sexy bitch.

Self Improvement: If I had a Daughter

If I had a daughter, and she brought home a young man in whom I saw a reflection of myself, and this young man eventually broke up with her, I would not blame my daughter for the inadequacies which drove him away. It wasn't her fault.

On a Date: IUD

I was feeling gracious and so I lowered myself down her body but was waylaid as I crested Mons Pubis. She gently pulled at my head to return to her lips, but her self-consciousness only made me more bold and I shook myself free. I kissed her inner thighs and moved on to her vagina, which had begun to salivate steadily. I applied my tongue to only modest effect so I decided to ramp up my efforts by inserting two fingers into the folds- gasp! My probing hand had come upon a hard, slender object.. as one might find a lost hook in the ribbed throat of a fish. Whatever this object was, it's removal could only be of benefit. I spread my stroking fingers apart inside her, pinched the cruel thing between them, and gave a gentle tug. A moan came from the face above but the thing held fast. It was clearly well-anchored in the soft lining of this poor girl's cervix. I tried again, this time placing my thumb inside her as well. I gripped the thing tightly and gave a mighty yank- it came out with a splatter.

"I got it!"

I held it aloft. It was a curious white plastic. She looked at it dumbly.

"Put it back," she said.

Perfect Woman: Zoe Kazaan

A calciumite flower, her structure threatens to peel back her capillaried petals and burst forth in endlessly spreading branches of ivory and bone. The rose blood of her lip burns behind a tender weave of pinkened gossamer, microns thin, and her eyes, terrible and inspiring as Saltstraumen incarnate...

Self Improvement: Penis Size

Have decided my penis is too small when flaccid. When erect it has sufficient dimensions ( 6.3" x 3.2" x 1.6" x 5.4" ), however when it is flaccid, it is unbecomingly small. During the winter it shrivels like a straw wrapper. In warm climes, it nests in my pubic hair like a dewy sparrow's egg. These are unacceptable conditions in the company of women.  As such I have embarked on a rigorous penis lengthening regimen:

• 7:00 am : suspension of two pound weight from penis during shower.
• 10:30 am : seven minutes of penis twisting to encourage skin growth.
• 12:45 pm : lunch
• 4:00 pm : seven minutes of penis swinging beneath hot air dryer in men's room.
• 6:00 pm : kneading of penis during commute.
• 8:00 pm : penis given herbal rinse and cortisone injection.
• 11:00 pm : penis wrapped in warm gauze until morning.

Between above listed activities the flaccid penis shall be rubbed with capsacin and kept taped against my thigh.

On a Date: Too Drunk

"I like going straight to a bar for a first date," she said, "it makes things easier."

Indeed, the date became easier and easier. My tab, I estimated, was roughly equivalent to my car insurance payment. We spoke with our faces extremely close. Her breath was acrid, as was mine. We flirted and joked. I held her hair up to my face, pretending it was a beard, I burped a flavor into it which foreshadowed vomit. My veins pumped a furious torrent of bourbon. Vodka percolated desperately in her brain. She showed me her bra. She showed me her panty. I attempted to dance. We spared the dart board but damned the wall. The world was our oyster, and her apartment our pearl. The streets were her shell, my car a shucking knife. The keys to her front door an elusive clown fish, her purse a web of sea grass. Our clothing was the shackledom of society, her bed an incorrigible whirlpool for my senses. My mouth, a vessel of anointment, her naked body, a receptacle for my vomit... I payed for dry cleaning.