Tuesday, October 17, 2006


She likes motorcycles. Thinks they’re sexy. Thinks it’s sexy for a guy to be on a motorcycle. It’s a cock with wheels to her. I understand she isn’t alone.

I’ve ridden a motorcycle before. I didn’t crash. My brother crashed that bike. It might have been the same day. It was my cousin’s bike. I’ve never owned a bicycle but I didn’t crash the motorcycle. I guess that’s good luck.

She wants me to ride a Harley. I’m not sure I can stomach it, though. No matter how much sex it brings. I barely keep upright on four wheels and I drift when I drive.

Sometimes we drive out to the water. I like the ocean but I think she’s waiting for the inevitable rally. There’s always a rally at the ocean. Afterwards, when she shows me affection, I always ignore everything and assume her affection is genuinely stored up for me. I guess I doubt it now, though.

When we shoot guns I’d like to believe that she is aiming at the stuffed animals and paper targets without thinking of me. It bothers me to think of her shooting at me. I’ve seen her shoot. I’m pretty sure if it were me, and not the imaginary me personified by the stuffed animals, that she would hit me in the head. And that would make my brain explode. I would not like that very much. To have my brain explode. It would hurt. I’m sure of it.

When she talks about motorcycles I’m pretty sure that she hates me. I am not a cock with wheels. I am not; I’m sure, associated with cock in her mind. I don’t think she’s even fucking anyone else. It’s just that I am in a separate brain region from cocks and fucking even while she fucks me.

It could be that I am not her ideal. Some tattooed redneck or some cholo on a classic Indian is who she wishes she could be with every night. I have never even attempted rape. So I more or less am a castrati to her.

When she wakes up I am fine. Mornings, at least when you are awake and out of bed, are more safe. No one wants to be lonely making breakfast. It’s nighttime, the mating hours that are a problem. We end up in the same positions, saying the same things, doing the same cleanups, and making the same apologies. If she doesn’t wish I rode a bike she wishes I was a bike. She rides me that way. It’s not a question. It’s not a problem. It just is.


This used to be on sexgunsandmotorcycles.com and I'm not kidding. What makes me feel uneasy is that I can't find it anymore. Well, the one called SEX AND MOTORCYCLES used to be on that site, too. I'm not looking very hard, though. Maybe there is an archive on there and I don't know where. Bill? I'm not linking to your site if I'm not even on it anymore.


“Shove your gun in me and pull the trigger.”

-She wants to write porn but writes songs. She hates sex really. It is something to tolerate. At least the way I do it.

“There are necessary evils,” she says. She says it with a laugh that is meant to be teasing. She wants me to know that she is in on the joke. Only – I can see the boredom and feel the quiet need to get me out of her. She says she has never come in her life. I can’t imagine I would like sex much if that were me.

-We go to the shooting range to get her turned on. She likes guns, adores the violence of report. Probably she dreams I am a sedentary target. As slothful as I am I still think I might duck if someone were shooting at me. I like shooting the guns, too, so maybe I am reading too much into her.

-To be honest, the sex is not all that great. Her tongue shoots into my mouth. It feels like a rectangular piece of metal. Her kisses are horrible. And her pussy is dry like an un-lubricated condom or some dried house paint. It tastes like vinegar that has been used for pickling. It is not a clean taste. I do not enjoy her as much as I should.

- One day when we are older, maybe not too much older, we will admit that we do not like having sex with each other. It is to be hoped that we will be married and will then start having sex with other people. It is my sincere desire that we continue to be married and continue going to the shooting range until we both die.


I'm reading this book The End of Faith by Sam Harris. I wrote this down as a note to myself a couple months ago and when I "discovered" it in my documents it seemed to ring something of a bell. God, I should win awards and have book deals, too. Jesus.

I know this to be the case but I just want to clarify and organize it. You believe in an invisible giant who created the universe and everything in it, set all of life in motion, is able to see and is actively watching every atom from one side of space to the other and is keeping a check sheet of every single deed, action, word or thought put forth (or held within) for every single organism that exists, and who is going to burn for eternity any and every one of those creatures or things that dares to defy the laws said giant has given even though there seems to be a massive miscommunication which leads to a different set of instructions being handed out to different sets of people at least in this world, and who has it as his (for lack of a better word) sole intention to have every single one of his creations sitting around praising him and ‘glorifying’ him until such time as he decides to wipe them all out and just have heaven left. This all makes sense to you and yet you somehow can not fathom a system of logic wherein the sun and the moon deserve devotion. This seems laughable to me. And this is without even touching on the soul, birth, death, afterlife cycle. Which somehow precludes reincarnation.