Wednesday, December 06, 2006

All I can think about is food and sex

All I can think about is food and sex. I'm like some beast. Thing is, I'm not getting any of either. My life has been reduced to serial masturbation and instant breakfasts. And as with all things I blame life down at the plant.

I stand at the food machine and watch as the casseroles and days old buns go round and round. Not that I don't want food, I'm thinking about food all the time. I just can't find any. Like ass.

I see it. I see it all the time even when it's not right there in front of me. Every broad I run into, first thing that pops into my head, wonder what she'd be like, wonder what those are like, wonder what she likes to do, wonder if she'd like to do it this way or that way. Cashiers, cleaning ladies, school teachers, moms - doesn't matter. And although there's a kind of age bracket thing, it's ever expanding and I gottta wonder when is it gonna get scary or illegal. So far it's eighteen on one end and about sixty on the other.

I stopped off at the local to pick up some wings for the kids. The place was empty, save the three wait staff. On the drive home all I could think about was sex with all three of them. Separately, in three different places and times. So it wasn't one of those weirdo dreams. And I never touched a wing though they smelled awesome.

Or like, I was out front doing some fine carpentry on the porch the other day when this lady walked by. And I mean a lady. Class. Carrying library books. Neat as pin. Bit of money you could tell. She made a remark as she passed, asked something inane, do you enjoy doing that? Measuring shit and applying a controlled power? Yes I do.

Well, it's all I could think about for the next hour or two. Finery. Elegance. Her heady lust and my beastliness all over her. Imaging her in her town house, some classical music playing and me just going at it under the goose down on top of the fine threads. All tongue and growls and skilled hands.

Delusions of a beaten man.

See, the wife's continuing contempt has taken on a higher form. Hate. Full blown.

I hate my job. But I do my job.

My wife hates me, but she won't do me.

Won't feed me either. She's a good cook. I'm not. I know it's not the manly thing to admit these days but I have no interest in cooking. It's why I stopped hunting. I mean no point killing deer if you're not going to gut it and roast it. The fun goes out of the kill. At least take it down the butcher for sausage. Not that I expect her to cook, it's just she's so good at it. She has no interest in learning how to wire an outlet or hang a door. I respect that. Still.

And so I go without. Lunch for work is whatever is left over, forced down and for the most part thrown out. I spy the cornucopia of what the other guys get, and I have to admit I'm not the least bit envious. Food for me is now an abstract thought, a mental thing.

Something has got to break. This standoff has escalated into a dilemma.

Maybe I should bow to the reality, shave my head, declare myself celibate, and don some purple robes like them buddhist monks. I mean even with all the interent porn, I'm running out of spunkulus. And those monks look happy, laughing like they're on gas, every time any idea enters their crank they laugh it off. I got all kinds of ideas entering my head - apart from the food and sex - and most of them are rank fucking stupid. If I could just see that at the time. I never can.

And besides I gotta figure she's sizing up every guy she runs into. I mean she likes sex. A lot. Giving and getting. It's not something that goes away. And she's got a meaningless daytime existence, much like the rest of us. So I'm thinking I'm going to introduce the idea of going out to one of them swingers clubs. Or a have a swingers dinner party. Just throw it out there. No hints. Just lay it all out. Problem with that is it opens up all sorts of dangers and potentialities. One: who knows? I'm figuring there's no such thing as recreational heroin. Two: she might not like the idea.

You never know.