Make Your Own Girlfriend
Your dreamgirl do exist, you need only construct her, or
Desperate times call for desperate measures, or
Sometimes its just fun to type and say words:
Every girl, all of them. Every girl all of the time
She worries her suede boot in circles. Cantilevered the knees, non-lodebearing hands un-buttress the chin out from soft arms, limp but vertical.
She wears a scarf indistinguishable from her knit wool sweater-coat, the whole thing an optical trick to disguise her real scarf length. I know, though. I know.
She types. She’s smart to take advantage of Google’s generous gift to this terminal. Free Wi-Fi all Holiday Season long? That’s something she is reluctant to box and stow away. That’s how Boxing Day works, right? Primarily stow-based?
She buys a muffin and you can tell by her socks it’s blueberry. Sugar crisp square crystals dot the top — a top which is perfectly crust:tender enratioed. Ratiotic. She takes a Diet Dr. Pepper without paying, sneaks it, doesn’t even sneak it, plops it in her bag with her off hand while her eyes stay locked on the cashier/owner. It’s a small operation, operator-owned no doubt. We’re in THAT terminal. The kind you gotta walk or take a bus to. What do you think these carriers did to deserve this kind of terminal? And who runs airports? I assumed they would be public but increasingly nothing is, like the first time you found out about hospitals. What! Where did she go? No flights have left since you trailed off, no lines formed, no passengers called. You’re so close to the bathroom you would have seen her except oh no she sat down right next to you. Like, airport etiquette shattering/game theory negating close. One seat. Not between, over. Right next.
Sugar crystals all over your seat.
You’re trapped. You’re on a train, a bus, a plane. An elevator that is either slower than normal or rapidly falling or trapped. For the next three days to six hours to twelve seconds these, as far as you’re concerned, are all the women in the world.
It’s time to make do.
That’s unfair. Other than the elevator situation, you can always find at least one person who’s worth it. Generally plenty.
And in aggregate colon exclamation point.
Who is your airplane girlfriend? What is your move and then what are your moves? After that, later, where (and when) does it go? Every girl, all of them, can be yours. Extend this and keep extending.
Depending on how you look, you’re likely going to want to parcel out your gaze. Even if you have zero actual plans for anything to ever happen between the two (three, six, eight, hundreds) of you, best/semi-decent practice is to not make anyone (ever) feel preyed-upon, zx’d, the subject of an in-flight picture show, or otherwise in danger placed.
Exceptions, as alluded to previously, include the two extreme ends of the Looking Like A Human Being spectrum. The pathologically attractive are free to stare, gaze, leer, eyemakeloveto, and gape away. They are better than you or me, and their attention is a commodity tracked and traded on the NASDAQ [North American Sexual Dynamism Appropriation Quarry]. The quarry is figurative, of course.
But unlike stocks or futures, these 1,000 yard fuck bonds only appreciate in value, mature over and over in bed, in the bath, in the shower, on the bus, at work, in a boring meeting, squeezing your thighs, just so, getting there.
And on the other side, opposite these eye-widening, thigh-tightening, eyes-squeeze-shuttening, exorcism-fingers, throat-tightening, pulse-Quickening,1 face-flushing, All-Body-Brahmins are the unfuckable sub-Shudra mugbloods, who, so dismally undoable, so viscerally unappealing, fly so far beneath the radar as to be invisible to all decent people, and pitied by all indecent people. Letting them look is considered a tax-deductible charitable act, even by non-narcissistic-maniacs. Even your regular (you-should-live-in-a-)bog-standard uglos, the shudder-inducing Shudras, they just let it happen.
So, if you’re that bad looking just go for it. Your life is like that of a (ferociously ugly) cowboy, or a three-year-old who no-one wanted, can’t get adopted, will grow and die in this place– no rules, all abandon.
Did you know that orphanages keep you there until someone says “I guess I think I could love them”? Normally, at 17, someone who works there will say the magic words, responsibility-free, just to get them out of there. But this is a kind of hideousness you can’t kid about. Both in the sense of you don’t joke around re: possibly liking it, but then also that part about how no one wants to child-rear it. Sad slash rear.
In a film, the inciting incident is the occurrence or act that sets into motion all of the plot that comes after. For example, in Debbie Does Dallas, when Debbie is paid by her boss to first show, then let him touch, and then let him suck on her tits, she subsequently realizes that by turning herself and all her friends out, she can raise the money needed to pay her way to Dallas Cowboys cheerleading camp. From there it is a wall-to-wall densely pubic fuck and suckfest as the girls of T Services ‘rack’ up all the cash needed for them all to ‘come’ along!
Or take Alice In Wonderland– obviously the inciting incident in this psychedelic classic is when Alice is transported to Wonderland, after which she undertakes a journey of vaguely erotic and often confusing sexual self-discovery, culminating in her making it back to the real world where after 80 minutes of solid teasing she deflowers herself on the kinda sketchy guy she works at the book store with.
Contrast this with Hyper Sluts Hyper Butts 7, where what constitutes an inciting incident is the introduction, “This is DAPHne, and this hypa slut gotta hypa ASSSSzzz” and then she sucks his dick for like 12 minutes alternatingly rimming him. Where’s the build-up?! Where’s the tension?! I really don’t care for salad tosses. He doesn’t even get his own dumb title right!
Whither the penetrative arts? or Wither the penetrative arts? Am I right
I hesitate to further encreep myself to you by now returning to such pure-hearted, smutless, emissions-free lust in the wake of what just got happened, but– in real life/in the people that you physically see– what is that aspect that incites you? USE THIS
- It could be a ponytail– the way it swings, or bounces when she runs; it’s the physics of it as much as the luster, the color, the texture, the health of the hair. Keep that with you and apply to it other contexts and think about what those must be like. Live there, in the image of it bouncing, swinging, brushing over you, your thighs, getting in the way, signaling abandon. Or would it just stay where it’s from, providing leverage as one hand grips the hip. Side Question: what does it feel like to have that rein pulled? Is there a bit in your tail that twists to signal ‘gallop’, ‘buck’?
- It could be a well-jeansed ass. Every inch, every cubic centimeter, every molecule of the jeans seat touching it, hugged to. Your Pants: completely filled/sated. Saginated. As Rick Dyer explains in his under-appreciated essay “Entertainment and Utopia,” scarcity is one of the real societal failings that big hot asses address, albeit in an imaginary way, through their abundance. As in, I needs to see A Buns Dance == DAMN/or was he writing about musicals…
- It could be a barrette– a basic solid color plastic clip. An off-primary dark teal, ochre canary, hard pink; a barrette the color and nostalgic and pastel flavor of pillow mints, scooped freely from the town’s first Chinese Restaurant. Guardian Lion Dogs. Picture her putting it on in the morning, stepped out from the shower. Her hair is wet underneath two hours longer for being clamped. Picture her taking it off at night, or sleeping with it in, because she forgot or because you asked. Would that be comfortable or possible? Both the act and the request (for both). I’d dump me if I asked myself to no-leave-it-in with those eyes and those lips. Open mouth, just waiting.2
- It could be colors. I like sea green and anything/one sea green tricks me, shortcuts all my critical faculties and makes straight for the heart. A vespa, a bra strap, a shirt, an eye, or two eyes, a wallet, or hair dye, or some jewelrypiece; shoes. Shorts: the small kind– jeans, but not cut offs– just short. If you have sea green shorts of any kind, call me: 1-800-64-GIANT. No seriously, get in touch comma If you like getting touched…
- It could be a word said mispronounced, oddly intoned, used inappropriately, used appropriately, whispered, (especially whispered), shouted, or withheld from your vocabulary by request of your upbringing. I have no shortage of respect for people who are real successful at not swearing– when they can do it real seamless, come up with high quality substitutes that surpass the real thing. Strange Turn-On #8! Also: remember when not swearing was a thing? Was the thing? Was the #1 thing churchgoing folks got up in arms about (besides Satan) before they realized they could just get every god blessed thing they ever wanted if they just voted, paid for it? Do you ever think about if maybe we made a mistake going to culture war?
- It could be a flaw, or what would ordinarily be used punitively against this person. Who wants someone perfect? Who wants to live up to that (a) and (b) now you have leverage. (Ponytail style). The three sweetest syllables in the English language– “leverage,” not “ponytail style.” Although… no. No. It’s what we all want, what we all need, and what so few of us ever get. Oh! Leverage.
Rowling you guys. JK.
It could even be the echoes of their thoughts– you know, how when aroused all the re-directed blood leaves your brain perilously under-insulated, allowing your thoughts to exit as they wish. It’s why everyone can tell when you look at their perfectly-jeansed ass. This thinness goes both ways, and when you’re featuring you can theoretically pick-up the signals sent by others. However, in practice, the particular pooling place of all that blood generally takes enough of your attention away from your conscious thoughts as to render this ability moot.
Note: sometimes people are born with preternaturally thick skulls. These ‘wet-steppers’ are unable to emit or receive fuck-or-any-other-kind-of-thoughts. Also their head is weird and gross and undeserving of love. When was the last time you read someone’s bonerdreams?
Back to the echoes– since an airplane uses recycled air, all the same thoughts circulate over and again and you have more chances to win. Add to that the furious state of your hyperbaric skyboner, and the airplane is a veritable brain bathhouse. With everyone’s brainwaves all bouncing around and super easy to pick-up, and your skull as under-insulated as its ever been, enjoy each thought the same way you would your other inciting aspects. Or, I guess, get a life and a real flesh and brains girlfriend: the kind of gal that fulfills all the old zombie qualifications. Happy Hallowe‘en!!!!!!!!
Are you a Zombie at love or a Ghost? Do you mindlessly stumble from one warm brain-retaining body to the next? Or, non-corporeal, a complete un-entity to us the living, will you never touch a woman again yet hang around haunting them anyways?
Wolfman: periodic bursts of uncontrollable animalistic lust
Mummy: plod methodical through the motions, steady but effective
Vampire: drain and ditch
Black Lagoon Creature: nobody remembers you even exist (not even you)
1. Highlander style – heart races so fast that there seems there can be only one beat
2. There are good shudders and there are bad shudders and this one is both
Tags: 1000 yard fuck bonds, a Wolfman at Love, all the best shudders, All-Body Brahmins v. Sub-Shudra Unfuckables, bog-standard uglos, delicious blueberry muffins, Entertainment and Utopia, eyemakeloveto, hyperbaric skyboners, NASDAQ, odd intonations, pillow mints, primarily Madeline Stowe based (it's between the lines-- find it!), primarily stow-based, sea green jeans shorts, sugar crisp square crystals, well-jeansed asses, Whither the penetrative arts?, Won't somebody please find the Creature From the Black Lagoon somebody to love?, Your Dreamgirl Do Exist