Oh, this is just what he needs.
That’s what I’m thinking when I pull the bloody torpedo-shaped napkin out of my panties – not a sanitary napkin either, an actual dinner table napkin, which is what I wedge between my thighs when I get lazy, sometimes on the third or fourth day, or the fifth. That’s right, five days of carnage seeping out a painhole near your asscrack – every three weeks. I just wonder how a man would handle that, the dead animal smell, the stains on his pants, on the bed, under his fingernails, the blood red toilet water, the blood bombs on the tile early in the morning, a trash can full of bandages like someone was trying to plug a bullet wound. Because something about it all is so bonerkillingly apropos; it’s the side of pussy they don’t want to touch. It’s not objectifiable. It’s not chubberific.
And when I say he and him and them, I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about that limpdick side of you, that dead-eyed taxidermied personality that comes out of your thumbs late in the day, or around midnight, when you’ve had a drink or an Ambien and you hit up the waitress you banged last year or that vaguely milfy lady on Match who seems down to sext, or that facebook friend who loves posing with her own tits. It’s that side of you that wants to get these lower tier women to agree to let you borrow their vagina for ten to twenty minutes – just not in those exact words. You know what I’m talking about. I’m talking to that voice in your head that plays it cocky when you feel like a creamy dog turd deep inside. I’m talking to you, Halfassed Fuck Patroller.
HFP: Has life brightened up for you?
Me: Brightened up for me?
You were so bummed when we last talked
No I wasn’t. Oh wait – you thought because I didn’t want to fuck you that I was bummed out about life?
Whoa, I didn’t say anything about sex. Your words not mine LOL. I would never assume anything like that. I treat a woman like I treat my sister. But if it happens, it happens, I’m not in any rush.
Oh ok, my bad, that’s great. I think.
Although I do think we’d have amazing chemistry.
By “we” you mean you?
What, you not feeling it? That’s fine. Can I ask why? I’m not trying to brag but i know I’m not ugly. And my girlfriends have never complained.
In the next frame, he sends me a picture of his penis.
Not so long ago, this shitty sequence of events with an HFP would trigger a corresponding side of my personality let’s call the Dumbass Profile Pic. DPP is consummately frozen carbonite smile that is powered by the male gaze. DPP’s progesterone-soaked neurons really hate for anyone to feel the slightest bit awkward or uncomfortable, even when they deserve to. DPP swallows her disappointment over the dickpic on her screen and swaddles an HFP’s ego like a shiny, rotten easter egg. She ferries it in a spoon across the landmines of Where’s mine and Your turn now, because DPPs know that the number one rule of attention-mongering is paying back a sad bathroom mirror pic with a heavily filtered tit-shot.
HFP: I don’t act this way with anyone btw. I’m not saying you’re special but there’s something about you that draws me in.
The problem is, when a DPP voluntarily abstains from sex for 18 months, she undergoes a sea change at the biochemcial level. At eight-months, she is fully detoxed from all the foggy, post coitus bonding hormones that led to every bad decision she ever made in her life. At the ten month mark, she stops thinking about the way he said I love you when she was topless. She spends the next two months facepalming over all the stupid, stupid emojis she used to lubricate an HFP text thread. At 16 months sex-free, she is fully effaced and immune to the Pavolivan dinging in her phone. At 18 months she can soak up silence like a Tesla battery and her bullshit sensors are NASA grade.
Let’s call her Bleeder Barbie.
When presented with an HFP, Bleeder Barbie finds that she has lost her sea legs, and her actual ones. Someone took a sharpie to her clear hopeful eyes and stopped combing her plastic, life-like hair. Though Bleeder Barbie tries to harken back to her days as a Dumbass Profile Pic, though she searches her database for gratitude and civilty and fuckability, she is instead filled with an apolcalyptic blankness that can only be described as DS or Dryhumped Soul.
She has lost her firm hold on the expectant dick of a HFP. Sadly, she can give narry a half pump fuck.
I consider the unfolded napkin I just dropped into the garbage, its bright red blood arrow now resting on top of an empty box of Special K. I take my phone and zoom in, I want a real up-close high def shot where you can see all the slug-like bloody bits that once lined my uterus to, you know, nourish new life and perpetuate the human fucking race. I hit send.
HFP: I think I’m gonna throw up.
Yes, yes I figured you would, and you should throw up, because a Halfassed Fuck Patroller’s innocent, well-meaning, treat-you-like-my-sister penis does not like Actual Pussy. He washes his eyes of it and moves onto the E’s in his phone contacts. Bleeder Barbie meanwhile, changes her stained pants and takes out the trash.