Tales of a Contemporary Twenty-Something: Once Upon a HypocriteMature

Another story from the politely crude and beautifully blunt twenty-something.

Fuck this.

Fuck school, fuck friends, fuck the girl I’m fucking, fuck family, fuck life.  This is one of those amazing moments when the crashing wave of emotions leaves you with the tranquil feeling of, “it really could be that easy… just one trigger pull and no more.”  Of course, the next thought mechanically forms telling you that things are always better than they could be.  The starving, plague ridden family in Africa has lived a lifetime of pain that you will never experience.  And it’s true.  They’ll be too preoccupied with starvation and famine to care whether or not I carefully used a razor or clumsily depressed a shotgun trigger with my big toe.  They won’t have the television when the fifteen second news segment plays about the “Disgruntled young male who thought life was too hard on him. Found dead this morning swinging by a rope hung from the still circling ceiling fan.  The fan is still in good condition.”  Maybe I’ll leave in a letter to ship all my belongings to Africa to help them.  I’m sure they would love my GAP t-shirts and jeans.

Maybe I’m just bitching.  Is life as bad as I make it out to be? No, of course not, it’s someone else’s job to do that.  Mom, Dad, girlfriend, teacher, doctor, boss, friend, brother, sister, president, media, etc…. You wouldn’t do half the stuff you do if you weren’t told to do it first, watched someone else do it or do it in rebellion of something else that was said or done or whatever.  Which makes me want to put on my philosophy cap and ask, “are you truly responsible for any of your actions at all?”  You could easily argue that your last DUI was because your father ranted about how your grandfather was an abusive alcoholic.  The old man having a few drinks than going toe-to-toe with a younger version of your old man.  Just so your grandfather can watch your adolescent father sob when he playfully smashes his nose into the side of his face.  Then, after breaking that button nose, making it plastered to his face like cheap plastic the drunk goes and wakes up the younger siblings to see if they want a romp.

 These are things you want to hear when you grow up. To learn right?

Then you begin to grow up.  You recall all those horror stories your father told you, remember them one night at a party, drink the thoughts away, then feel so guilty that you want to spend the rest of the night at home with your former victim of a father, so you stumble out to your automobile and smash into the back of a parked police car.  Sitting in that jail cell, with crusted vomit at the corners or your mouth, you think, “what is my son going to tell my grandson about this?”

I don’t think I would blow my head off though.  I’m way too fucking stubborn or proud.  I forget which one.  One thing I am not is weak.  Someone told me once, a chatty friend of mine, that the ultimate form of courage is suicide.  To take that last step over the edge of the tenth floor window or stay in your car long enough to let the fumes take effect takes an immense amount of willpower and resolution that would match the great Alexander.

I punched him in the face.

And as he moaned with blood spurting from his nose I posed my retort.  I will promote a “death before life campaign”.  I will argue that these moments since we were brought from the womb into this world is a Hell that we have to endure through a lifetime.  If it ends early then you have to start all over in womb, then begin another trip through Hell until you make it all the way through.  Our reality is a video game.  A world always cautious of our actions because we want to make it through this level and onto the next.  And we are always worried about pissing off the player who’s identity is as mysterious as the denial of our own free thinking.  A little role playing for the soul.

I was so drunk at the time, or maybe high. You always get your best ideas then.

This mode of thinking is fine.  I don’t promote it just express it when it’s necessary.  Like when my verbally excessive buddy with the slanted nose decides to spew intellectual on the subject.  I’m not criticized as long as I don’t criticize.  I guess I’m at least fortunate enough to interact with those open-minded individuals who have the courtesy to turn their noses at me and ignore me when they don’t agree.  That’s always better than expressing your own opinion.  Friends are made on compromise and restraint; only the lonely ones are those who have the balls to always tell what’s on their minds.  Everything is fine, except when they think you’re acting against your own doctrine.  The terrifying label of the hypocrite - a social outcast and intellectual misfit.  Such a name is justifiable cause for you to join those guilty ones in Salem and be burned at the stake.  A name worthy of whispers behind your back and never-ending jibes at your expense.  You will no longer be involved in a conversation when your contribution isn’t commented on with sarcasm as thick as a cement block.  You’ll save an infant from a burning building and instead saluting you they’ll blame you for starting the fire.

I personally fucking hate the hypocrites.  They’re smug faces talking about how they did this and that and tell the person behind them the complete opposite.  They preach against abortion when they’re pregnant, then make an appointment with the Abortion Clinic the next day when she discovers the note from her boyfriend saying he ran away with her sister.  “I didn’t think he would leave me,” her blurry, tear soaked eyes would plead at me, “I can’t do this alone!”  Like that’s an excuse.  “Fuck you” is a common remark I have for such discussions, “if you were so against it in the first place you would still be against it now.”

You know those abrupt, seemingly unnecessary suicide cases.  The ones where the headline reads: “Track Star Kills Self For No Reason” or “Movie Star Bleed Himself By Groin” or maybe “Heiress To Hotel Empire Commits Suicide With Curtains”.  There is no reasonable explanation for their intentions.  Every family member swears they weren’t depressed, weren’t acting abnormal.  Every friend explains that they never heard a word of suicide or plan to do so.  But there are no leads, no hints, no evidence to prove otherwise. So the case is closed with an absolute conclusion of suicide.  Unfortunately, more often than not, what really occurs in these situations are unintentional “suicide accidents”.  The reality is that the Track Star is a masochist, the Movie Star is masochist mixed with a little narcissism, the Heiress is one of those animals who loves to be choked of breath when she climaxes.  This is when suicides are actually “accidents”.

The Track Star dripping in nervous sweat, his slick skin shining under the daunting locker room lights.  He goes through his usual ritual of loosing up, sliding the subtle serrated blade of a butter knife along the inner thigh of each leg.  Four two inch slices on the left, three on the right.  Then he’s breathing easier, the wide smile is evidence of the new confidence he has of winning another race.  The slip and slap of that small trickle of blood between his legs as he crosses the finish line.  Never any need to worry of any suspicion; he knows six miles worth of sweat will wash the blood from his confidence cuts way before he wins the race.
 
But what if one day his mother discovered the knife in his bag and figured it was misplaced.  Do you think this Track Star would be bold enough to run his leg clumsily along the razor sharp corner of a broken locker.  The bent in edge of the rusting chipped orange metal door, the brown and black puddle of hard disgusting muck settled inside from generations of sweaty gym shorts.  Do you think he would pull off his champion running sweat suit, carefully line the edge of his healing dark scab from his last race to this bent piece of aged metal?  Then, standing there alone in the locker room in just his white briefs, he gathers enough resolution to push the triangle through the scab until in disappears into his thigh and send it along the length of two inches.  He would do that, but do you think that with such a thick piece of metal he wouldn’t hit an artery?

The handsome Movie Star, adored my millions, but none so much as himself.  He would stare at himself for hours on end, practicing every pose he would strike on the red carpet at his next movie premiere.  “How could you not love me?” was his catch phrase.  One thing he loved more than anything on the chiseled body of his was Ego.  That’s what he called it before he showed it to the group of giggling women at the club, “you guys want to see Ego? All thirteen and half inches of him.”  The girls would drop their martinis and gather around on their knees, eager to witness the raw power that was Ego.  And he’d show them, stiff with thick veins popping like wires. Women who were lucky enough to see it said it looked like an unnatural mechanical phenomenon that could puncture holes through steel.  Ego was a Super Cock.

Movie Star knew it and he loved it.  In fact, he loved it so much that he would abuse it as much as possible.  One of his favorite things to do was grab a vice grip and place his member inside the crude grooved metallic mouth, then twist the knob until the teeth gripped his Ego so tight that the remaining inches that hung out the one side was a deep black and pulsating blue.  That’s how he got off.  He loved to have one of these women from the club masturbate in front of him.  He would offer her a closet of options from the high-powered Beaver Vibrator to the throbbing Inserted Butterfly.  She would giggle and choose, hike her skirt to her waist, spread those tanned thighs and pull her thong to the side so Movie Star could watch.  As she moaned and bit her lip, he twisted the handle, squeezing his throbbing penis harder and harder until as he watched her.  Her hips rocking, her hand thrusting to the rhythm of her pleasure he kept twisting as he built more and more.  She moans harder, faster and it’s making him want to cum and he’s cranking even harder, his fingers straining with resistance like he is grinding a Thanksgiving turkey through a sausage link press.  Forearms bulging with strands of muscle and Ego is growing more black, veins bursting with restricted blood. He doesn’t pay attention, he’s too close to cuming.  She’s screaming, the orgasm making her tanned thighs shake.  He keeps twisting, cranking it farther and farther, he feels his white essence begin to rise and his toes tingle.  Just one more crank as it gushes and – Pop!

You’d be surprised how much you can bleed out of a thirteen-inch penis.
Miss Hotel Heiress is having sex again in the Penthouse Suite. This time with the seventeen-year-old bellboy who just discovered that his parent’s cable gets scrambled pornography and he hasn’t stopped watching the weaving discolored mess of what could be tits and thrusting for the last two weeks.  Such a discovery definitely cut into his time on the fantasy role-playing online chat forums but, has he so innovatively thought, he was getting more exercise than he has ever gotten in his life. However, despite that fact, Bogart found himself shoving his firm little knight in and out of the wetness of the half-moaning heiress as she attempts to feign some interest in the intercourse she currently decides to find herself in.  Of course, such a decision was mostly a result of mish-mash of vicodin, whiskey and weed that, as always, gives her a luscious high, but also makes her hornier than rhinoceros with a hard-on. 
   
To make one thing perfectly clear, the beautiful, full-lipped princess likes it only when her eggs are scrambled at a subtle simmer of 100 degrees. She never wears the same outfit twice in the 365 days of the year, or the same pair of shoes (by the way, only those that should cost under $90 per shoe). And she also wants only to wipe her ass with the leaf of an endangered species of a certain plant that only exists in South Africa. She says that it is the only thing that can make her shit smell like roses.

But sex… well, that’s the only thing that she is not picky about. Sex to this girl is like trimming your fingernails; just a regular occasion that occurs whenever you want it. The way she sees it nothing is complicated about it, just insert and pump for pleasure… easy.  However, there is one minor detail she demands when she begins to feel that tickle of that crest of an orgasm – to have the breath completely choked out of her. Not just any way though, but with the silky grip of the Penthouse Suite curtains. Her knuckles burning white as her Candy Apple Red fingernailed fists pulling the twisted curtains tight around her neck. Her tongue waging for air as her eyes roll back in her head. This current session with the over-eager bellboy, drooling and clenching his pale cheeks together at every push of his hips in between those slim and sleek legs, ends before she can fully get her suffocation climax. He abruptly grunts as he drives himself as far as he can into her, fingers clutching the shampooed shag carpet.
“Was that it?” the Heiress coughs as she loosens the strain on the curtains, “did you just fucking cum in me?” The bellboy can only stare at her with eyes that have just seen God and a wide, goofy smile. His braces even seem to be beaming with joy.

“Get the fuck off of me,” she disgustedly spits out as he shudders a little when he pulls out of her. She doesn’t even bother to cover herself when he hops up from the floor and hikes up his pants. “Enjoy that asshole? I didn’t even get mine.” she yells to him as he steps out the door with a perfected sarcastic tone that could cut glass. “Now I’ve got to do it myself, see if your little dick finds itself in me again.” 

One could say that she overdid it when they found her choked of life with a hand still between her legs.

These unintentional deaths are later gossiped about on the local morning show, announced in the trendiest Hollywood programs, and printed in bold headlines with graphic photographs in the tabloids; all of them unreservedly spreading the news of the most recent incident of hypocrisy. Mr. Blond caked in flaking make-up and sporting his spotless blue suede suit will disappointingly shake his plastic cleft chin as he recites the report of Mike Dupinski, the track star with a full ride to Pepperdine or a six-figure offer to appear on a cereal box. The talk show that sports his blond name will preach to the grazing audience that the world has no room for those who cannot reap the benefits of their own hard-earned rewards. “There are millions of people who have dreams and cannot reach them… and from no fault of their own.” Mr. Blond smashes a bulb shaped tear into his face, wetting his porcelain skin, “there is absolutely no room in this life for those who either do not share their good fortune with others or those who slam it in our faces when they decide to lose it all by killing themselves. By making himself a role model, by displaying a life to live by, and then ending it is a true sign of hypocrisy. My friends, by doing this people all over the world, young and old alike, will gaze upon this former stellar athlete and ponder ‘why was such a gift wasted? Why was I not given all that if he was just going to destroy it?’ Literally becoming stricken with pain by those hasty and completely unnecessary actions! By self-slaughtering, fucking Mike Dupinski didn’t realize that everyone loses.”

Nobody likes a hypocrite, especially Mike, the hung Movie Star and the most definitely little miss Heiress. But no one had time to ask them; they were too busy accidentally committing suicide. And like I said, I fucking hate those hypocrites too, but that’s after I became one…. by accident.

I have a vixen of a friend that I call Peaches.  Her real name is Ethel Betty McMarmon, but since Ethel and Betty are only names that women have after they turn sixty I call her the one thing she reminds me of when I taste her. 

Peaches and I weren’t the best of friends.  I actually first met her in middle school, the eighth grade.  She sat in front of me in English class.  She knew I had a bit of a crush, but she just sat there without a word to me, as girls do, with the smirk that says “I know you like me, but I’m not going to do anything about it.”  I would try everything to make some type of physical contact with her.  Every time the teacher asked for something to be passed out, I volunteered.  I would pray that when papers were handed around in our seats it was the direction where I could hand Peaches hers, just so I could timidly tap her shoulder and bashfully hand her the stack of papers.  She eventually caught on and she played along. After that I would get a subtle finger stroke along the top of my hand as she reached for her next writing assignment or sometimes, if I was feeling courageous, I’d make eye-contact and receive a wink for my efforts. I don’t think an eight-grader ever wore out the stitches in the crotch of their pants because of an erection, but that year I did.

Then it happened, Peaches found a boyfriend. I discovered it while I was working on my oral report on ‘The Dangers of Regular Household Utensils’ that was part of my teacher’s brilliant new four week unit on Juvenile Adjustment and the Issues of Home and Family. What that has to do with English I don’t know, but the middle-aged pocked face, overweight bald man was voted best teacher of the year three years in a row, then fired the next for groping a mentally disabled male student. I guess when he said ‘Juvenile Adjustment’ I think he meant he was going to do all the adjusting. Anyway, so I’m biting my lip, focused on finding another word for ‘cut’ when I hear Peaches’ heavenly giggle. I look to the doorway to discover my Aphrodite in a tight embrace with a shaggy kid in grease stained army camouflaged pants that conveniently hung just below his ass cheeks and a worn John Deere baseball cap that has its bill broken in a perfect steeple.  The ‘I Love Kitties’ baby blue t-shirt just put the final touches on a red carpet outfit. I recognized the motherfucker from seventh grade.

Younger and white trash, the pure thought of it made me gnaw a hole in my lip.

The next couple of weeks were no less than pure fucking hell. I handed sheet after sheet to Peaches with nothing more than a slight glance over her shoulder or even so much as a waft of her bulimia stained puke breath in my direction. This forced me to think of different ways to try to get back the tease that I, and my screaming erection, begged pathetically for. There could be absolutely nothing else on my mind. I ran through any and every innovative idea that I could conjure up to make her see me again. But, as any shy, perverted, preoccupied, distracted, immature, riddilin injected, spaz of an indecisive eight-grader would do I could not, for the life of me, think of anything that I approved of (my best idea was throwing her a loud burp, maybe fart, but I nixed that idea at the last minute).

I stood in front of the class and twitched with a motorcade of anticipation, my brain firing a barrage of reminders of the obsession with Peaches and her abrupt lack of compassion for my sexual fantasies. The last thing on my mind was my report clutched in my tiny left hand and my visual aid of scissors in the sweaty palm of my right. My original plan was to hold up the worn, orange handled cutting tool for all to see, you know, just to get some kind of visual as I droned about how it was not the best idea to run around with, play with or, maybe, circumcise pets with such a household item. The structure of the academic report was flawless and would have made all those hours practicing in front of a mirror justified if I could just stop staring at Peaches’ beautiful mascara clumped eyes. What was heartbreaking was that they refused to meet my own. She casually cast them down towards her pink notebook and scribbled over and over again “Colby and Ethel”, with a big bold heart shape around it; just to drive the knife even deeper. “Fuck it,” my brain slaps at me to get me motivated, “are you such a pussy that you’re gonna let a girl control your actions? Get the fuck with it!”

My mind is my own personal drill sergeant.

That’s when I peel my eyes away from her and let gravity nod my head towards the trembling page of typed notes. It used to make me feel smart to use the computer for everything I did; now I feel that I’m giving a machine half of the credit for my work. I then proceed to digress about ‘dangerous household items this’ and ‘potential to serious injury that’. The whole class gaping at the sharp metal utensil I awkwardly hold up towards the ceiling like I’ve just removed Excalibur from its stone prison. I’m not listening to myself, but I assume my report is going just fine since my teacher at the back of the room has that more than necessary smirk and both magic finger hands fumbling in his pockets as he rhythmically nods with approval in my direction. I never thought to think about what was really on his mind at that moment, but I have some idea now.

Peaches hasn’t cast a glance at me at all since I’ve trudged to the center of attention and spouted my genius of common sense and that’s when the terrifying thought occurred to me - she may never look at me ever again. The notion hit me like watching someone give themselves a paper cut through their eyeball and my lunch began to bubble and I tasted vomit in my mouth. The nausea wasn’t enough for me to end my speech, but it did give me my “oh so brilliant” idea. It seemed so simple and obvious that, to this day, I wonder why it isn’t a technique used more often. I immediately crumbled up my hard work and research on avoiding injuries and breathed deep with my teeth showcased to the class.

That’s when I ran the point of the scissors straight into the back and out the palm of my left hand….. Peaches definitely looked at me then.

It’s funny how fast the simple-minded middle school aged kids can learn a word like ‘hypocrite’ and know exactly what it meant as they whispered behind your back or shouted it in your direction. The shortened version, ‘hypo’, even lasted longer than ‘nut-bag’ or ‘pyscho’ and even the widely popular ‘wack-job’. I figured there may be some type of chit-chat as I sat in the cozy white room of the hospital. Occasionally making a field-trip across the hall to a room painted with ‘soothing colors’ to banter about my mental state to Ms. Hellen Keller. She signed my cast “You’re not nuts. Love, Hel Kel”. Now that I think back, her name isn’t that ironic considering all her scribbled notes of “Hmmm” followed sometimes by “Really?” she didn’t draw the conclusion that I was becoming the unstable entity that I am today. But she appeared to watch and listen fairly well.

As it turns out though, as I was vacationing at the catheter palace those few weeks, some big-mouth overheard some talk outside the plywood door of the teacher’s lounge and decided to grab a neat little invention called The Dictionary to research the topic of conversation. Two days later, everyone, pre-pubescent and not, knew me as the “Household Hypocrite”. I became the commercialized version of a sin that has existed for hundreds of years and, so I hear, guarantees you a room at one of the more painful levels in Hell.

Of course, when I denied responsibility for my actions and argued that the control resided over the power of love (which I temporarily substituted for “lust” because, quite honestly, my under-developed brain assumed it was love – or at least my hard cock told me it was so) I received no understanding. “It was an accident,” I would usually say, “I didn’t mean to do it. I only meant to get someone to look at me.” It didn’t matter at all to those squinting pasty eyes. In fact, it only made the matter worse by giving those all those fucking pimpled assholes more ammunition to strike the vicious whip again at my self-esteem.  Making me one of the slaves of middle school – a member of the drafted few who serve as the lowest form in the hierarchy of students as a target to fire at to give the others the benefit of a higher self-worth. And once you have a membership, you are a member for the rest of your scholastic career.

If you thought war was devastating to one’s stability, try being in my place through high school.

I saw Peaches again four years out of high school at a smoothie joint in a newly erected part of our anti-diverse suburb. We accidentally caught each other’s eyes and with a fake half-smile she had that sympathetic automatic response like you were making cute talk to an ugly baby, “Hey… How are you?” I casually told her a brief overview of what was occurring in my life, leaving out all the parts about how sometimes I still masturbate to the thought of milky skin and dangerous curves. Which, as I we indulged in our simple banter, I planned to do immediately in the car right after this meeting after witnessing her matured DD breasts hammocked in a low cut v-neck cleavage masterpiece, that platinum blond hair and sparkling red lips that were plump enough to suck on like candy.

By the time I received my Mango Apple Crush and she accepted her slimming low calorie nonfat Chocolate Burst our conversation crept into the comfort zone. We ended up sitting on the curb outside as she gossiped and reminisced and talked about herself, while I occasionally nodded or gave a one-word response that showed how interested I was to her theory of preserving her latest manicure.

The talk about my little “episode” with the scissors never came up. And it never has.

Now we talk regularly, this vixen and me, sometimes at the local coffee shop, over lunch, and occasionally accompanied by a couple cocktails at her apartment (she likes to call them cocktails because it sounds healthier and less fattening). I like these discussions with alcohol the most because I almost always get laid. She will invite me over with a giggle, passionately wave her third margarita in the air as she talks politics, cry about how she can’t fit into the pants she wore in sixth grade anymore and then tell me to fuck her. And I do.

But there is one act I absolutely have to perform right before I spasm in a gush of manhood - I turn her around to face her towards the head board and stab myself into her doggy-style. And as I mercilessly pound my hips against her jiggling mounds of meaty flesh I grip a handful of her hair and playfully yank back so I can stare at that pink ragged two-inch scar on my left hand.

Then I think to myself, “this sex really wasn’t fucking worth it.”

The End

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