A Longing for Ginsberg’s ‘Cock and Endless Balls’

I woke up next to him with my tits pressed hard against his chest. It was warm and my nipples were hard. He didn’t notice. The sun was shining through the ten million windows in the room and I inched my hand deeper and deeper under the covers looking for his cock. The alarm went off. FUCK.

We dated for eight months. Not even a goddamned year. Before I met him I used to write poetry. Terrible droning woman poetry. I though I knew something about love or truth or whatever highfaluting over romanticized concepts related to beauty that all women are fed. Well, raped with actually. He was a man of purpose and reason and concrete and black and white and gray and ohmygod is he dull. Within a month I realized that we had a major difference that we would never get over. I wanted to fuck. All the time. I wanted cock in the morning, cock in the evening. I wanted cock at night and during any time in between.

I knew I had little time to fuck him before he obsessed about getting to work on time.
“What time is it?”
He rolled over grabbed his watch/barometer/lifepartner and set the alarm to snooze. Another ten minutes till I hear that noise again and he gets more anxious to leave.
“8”

I thought about it for a minute. Ten minutes for him to wash his hair and brush his teeth, twenty for me to make him breakfast before he leaves, and about an hour of time that every day that gets lost or misplaced in the ether. Twenty minutes for him to walk to the post office and the back to work. Ten minutes for coffee. He works at 10. It’s 8. FUCK. Exactly two hours.

Two months ago I woke him up everyday with his cock in my mouth. That was the only way to get his cock inside me, to put it in my mouth first. Groggy and mentally devoid of any sort of lust, morning sex initiated (launched really) only by fellatio and his cock telling him to get off, his performance was not up to par in the morning. Not ever in the morning. If I wanted to come I had to make him do it the right way pushing against him to correct the rhythm he should have known by heart. In his sleep even. Apparently not.

I pressed my tits harder against him and slid my hands under his pants. He wasn’t hard. I hoped for morning wood. No beans. I left to pee and then snuggled up to him until the next alarm. It was entirely out of the question this morning. I would have to make his omelet while he got ready and then let the sexual frustration cause my hair to fall out. Literally fall out of my head after he left. Everyday my hair fell out of my head and my clit screamed at me for attention. Nothing could be done.

“Omelet or oatmeal?”
“Omelet.”
He always said omelet.

The Sex Lives of Cannibals

This was another of the many books found in the library of my house when I moved in. One of my co-workers told me that it was a “travel book” before I had even opened it and I was feeling a little apprehensive, but the title, like all of Troost's titles, was intriguing and I thought that it was worth a quick read. I soon realized that it was basically a less side splittingly hilarious, more intellectual version of Chelsea Handler's books; if Chelsea Handler lived in Kiribati and had a lot of diarrhea (which is a word I can confidently say I would never spell right but for spell check).

The plot is something like this: author goes to grad school, does not know what to do with his life, girlfriend gets job in Kiribati, for lack of any other plans he joins her, fails to write fiction novel, has a lot of insanity come into and out of his life, moves back to the states, adjusts, hates it, moves to Fiji, has kid, mushy new father sweet ending. Oh, spoiler alert. Too late? Oh well. The plot is not really the point of the book. After finishing it I realized that my coworker was right, this was a travel book. The author travels to the end of the earth and finds himself in the most unlikely place, a place where most people find only fish, fish, fish, and la Macarena. Maybe some occasional digestive discomfort and WWII relics from battles past, but mostly fish. It was a little cheesy (especially at the end) even in its gross honesty, but not so much as to detract from the point which is probably: visit Kiribati, it will be interesting at least, or respect the people from Kiribati they are an interesting group of people troubled by issues that would be unheard of in the states.

The novel is very funny, well written, and despite the many less than glamorous aspects of life on the equatorial Pacific, and Kiribati in particular the reader is (or should be) left with a feeling of familiarity and longing for life as he lived it on the tiny island of Tarawa. I certainly feel as though Kiribati is somewhere I would like to visit, though I know it would be a test of my mental and emotional fortitude to do so (not to mention the strength of my insides).

And as a final aside, this book is neither about sex nor cannibalism. I have lived with or relatively near my younger brother for all twenty years of his life. Not once
has he ever shown any interest in what I was reading or for that matter anything else that can be read except for maybe the script of a video game he was trying to beat (don't get me wrong he is very literate, and intelligent, but he spends his brain power on other things, such as being totally hilarious). A few days ago I allowed him to borrow my car on the condition that he bring me my books from it first. His car died, and the truck my father gave him to replace it actually has no brakes, so I let him take mine for the day. When he delivered my books he actually asked about this one. That may not seem like a big deal, but it really is. The title alone is genius, and the book is a good read.