Cock-Chafing Devil Snatch

One morning after a vigorous night of screwing, my girlfriend saw me rubbing lotion onto my limp dick after we got out of the shower. It wasn’t exciting or sexy, just habit. I think it’s a healthy thing to do. It keeps the skin supple. Apparently, she had never seen me do this before, and shrieked, “That sucks!” Terrified, I asked “Why?” and she replied, “Like I’ve got some kind of cock-chafing devil snatch?”

PA Turnpike Arby’s at Harrisburg

On our way back home from New York, we stopped at an Arby’s for dinner. The girl at the register was short and chubby with flaming red hair. She looked to be about 19. She had prison-style tattoos, done very poorly and very likely with a sewing needle and India ink. They were comprised of lots of little dots all strung together into letters and shapes. “BOO” in the center of her right forearm, in letters approximately an inch and a half tall, all caps. She had the following collection of shapes in the same spot on her left forearm: “$,” a small outline of a heart, the letter “M” on her left hand, and a smaller heart on the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. My favorite was on her knuckles, though: “MATT” on the left hand. I wonder about Matt. Where is he right now? What is he doing at this moment? Is he okay? Is he dead? Does she still feel the same way about him? Is he an asshole? Has she ever punched him with those knuckles? This girl was a sign that told me I was getting a little closer to home.

The 7 Train from Queens to Grand Central

We took the 7 train from Queens to Grand Central. July 21, 2006, 2:36PM EST. It was 96 degrees Fahrenheit. My wife sat to my right. To my left sat a young couple, younger and prettier than us, both of them. He wore expensive Italian shoes, expensive everything, and a very precise haircut. The upkeep on it must have been intense. He was asleep, hunched over. Face in his knees. His girlfriend was blond. Her silk hair flowed into her silk blouse, from which her left tit nearly peeked out. She was asleep on him, twisted sideways and not wearing a bra. Together, they were a giant crumpled pile of silk, expensive, soft, and very nice to look at. Out cold, and completely vulnerable on a train to Grand Central. Across the aisle sat some tough-looking workmen from the Queens Industrial Park with giant boots and callused hands. They were filthy, sweating, stinking, laughing their asses off.

The Soup

New York smelled like a pot of boiling urine and garbage. It was a fucked-up, fragrant soup, 90+ degrees Fahrenheit. July, hot breath, people crammed everywhere. Subways, sidewalks, bridges. People unable to get away from each other. Everybody was hot. Everybody was on fire.

Citgo Cogito

Today I was tattooed at a gas station in the backwoods of central Pennsylvania. Our friends recommended the place. The guy’s work is good, and so is his reputation. I got Renee Descartes’ “Cogito” lettered inside my right bicep. There weren’t very many people hanging around, but from the chair I watched a small coke deal transpire outside the big window as the sun set. Mustaches and mullets. It’s not that I know a coke deal when I see one, but my girlfriend was there with me. She pointed it out. She was more experienced with such things and thus able to identify them when she saw them. After my tattoo, she got a very Dr. Seuss-looking bird tattooed very near to her girl parts. Tom Waits was playing over the stereo, and life just kept coming. No matter where you are, or what you’re doing, or what’s being done to you, life doesn’t stop. It’s impossible to step out of it, for even a moment. No respite. Everything counts.

The original plan was to get this new tattoo right under the Occam’s razor tattoo on my shoulder. At the shop, I hatched the idea to get it inside my right bicep. The consensus among all parties present was that the inner bicep placement was much cooler than the original location. I went with it, expecting a bit of a fight from my wife when I returned and she saw it. My wife has a weird hang-up with me getting tattoos in very visible places. She’d prefer they were all able to be hidden by a t-shirt. My girlfriend didn’t seem too concerned. After the work was done, we paid and left the shop. As we approached the house, I secretly hoped that we’d walk in right after she’d just been fucked silly by her boyfriend, so the post-coital glow would soften the shock of my new, awesome-looking, but very visible ink. As we walked in the door, there were no obvious signs of any recent or current sexual activity, and my guts tightened a bit. I saw my wife sitting at their table. She seemed pretty content, so I showed her the new work, doing my best to really sell it. She seemed kind of disconnected. She wasn’t excited or angry. After a few moments, and a brief explanation from her boyfriend, it came to light that they had just smoked, and she was pretty well stoned out of her mind. I was grateful. It wasn’t my original hope, but it had served the same purpose.