Diary of a Dirty Young Man: Sexy Skeletons

M. L. Edgington, III

—Friday 28 March

            Two and a half weeks ago, I decided not to masturbate until I get published. This might not sound that difficult (besides the publishing part), but I am by far the horniest person I know, and I don’t have a girlfriend. There aren’t any even on the horizon.

            I made this stupid pact with myself for two reasons. The first one was that I figured all those tantric guys, baseball players, and jazz musicians couldn’t be wrong when they said (I’m about to paraphrase here), “Every time you get a nut, you’re squirting your artistic energy into the toilet.” Seeing as how my artistic energy was in the toilet already, I figured I should stop literally putting it there. If my artistic energy wants to sneak out in the middle of the night and fly down the hall to the bathroom, there’s nothing I can do about that.

            The second reason I made this stupid pact is that my Brazilian buddy, Daniveo, said that doing jaquetas is like getting a cheeseburger from McDonald’s. He said that doing jaquetas takes away our hunter instinct. “I don’t want cheeseburger, man. I want to kill the cow.” He went on to explain a bunch of shit about how chicks want to be hunted and they can smell a hunter. Supposedly, not jacking off will make me emit a smell that will have “all the pusetas in the jungle wet for the manguasso.” Daniveo decided to abstain with me.

            Like I said, it seemed like a good idea at the time, though Daniveo broke down the next day, the bastard.

            So here I am, two and a half weeks in, nothing but rejections in the mail, and I’m horny as a coked up, nudie bar DJ. A week ago, I started looking at ugly chicks with a desire that been before reserved for sorority chicks and strippers. Yesterday, I found myself ogling a granny in a hover-round scooter, wondering if I could get in there. I really disgust myself sometimes. All I’m saying is that my cat better keep his tail down around me, because if another week goes by, he’s in trouble.

            I woke up this morning and realized I had to do something or there was no way I was going to make it through four classes of teaching hot little co-eds with their thong straps poking out of their low-rider jeans and their eighteen-year-old spring time boobs blossoming in front of me like sexy tulips in Amsterdam. No fucking way. This in mind, I went to the source of all wisdom: His Holiness the Dalai Lama and his book, The Art of Happiness.

            You’re not gonna believe this, but in his chapter about pushing away desire, I found a section about horniness. He suggests meditating while picturing the entire earth covered with skeletons. This sounded promising, so I lit a cigarette and assumed the half-lotus on my couch.

            For the first five minutes, I was doing pretty well. I was on this beach and there were skeletons everywhere. Floating in the water. Washing up on the beach and piled haphazardly all around me. It was a gruesome scene, and I wasn’t the least bit horny. But then I happened to spot this one little skeleton down the way, lying on a beach towel as if she were sunning herself. The smell of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil feathered past my nose on a breeze. The sun came out from behind a cloud, removing the shadowed frown from her face, replacing it with toothy smile. 

            That nasty little skeleton wants me to fuck her, I thought.

            Passing by mounds of bleached bones, I considered that it might be a bit difficult to fuck a skeleton and wondered how I might go about doing so. As I got a little closer to my sexy skeleton temptress, I heard a voice in the wind saying, “Bologna and mayonnaise sandwich.”  I wasn’t sure I heard this right, but then the voice said it again. “Bologna and mayonnaise sandwich.” I wasn’t sure what the fuck that was supposed to mean, so I asked the voice what I was supposed to do with a bologna and mayonnaise sandwich. It wasn’t anywhere near lunchtime.

“Make me a pussy with it.”

            The voice was her and she did want to fuck. I looked down in my hand and there was a warm piece of bologna on a single slice of Wonder Bread, slathered in mayonnaise.

            I was kneeling down next to my skeleton girlfriend by now. I rolled up the sandwich and stuck it right in that hole in the pelvis where the babies shoot out. She arched her back in ecstasy, and I was almost ready to start fucking my dirty skeleton girlfriend. But first, I was going to make me some skeleton titties to suck on while I was doing it.

            I looked down to my right, and laying next to somebody’s femur was a roll of Scotch tape, a jug of two percent milk and couple of quart-sized Ziploc bags. About thirty seconds later, I had affixed her a couple of the biggest damn skeleton titties you could imagine. I busted my underwear off as fast as I could and started fucking the shit out of that bologna sandwich.

            “Sorry, baby,” I said. “It’s been a while and this probably ain’t gonna last too long.”

            “I don’t care about that,” she said. “I just want to feel you inside me.”

            With that out of the way, I bit a hole in one of her Zip-lock bag titties and started suckin’. Fuckin’ and suckin.’  Fuckin’ and suckin.’ Man, this skeleton pussy was good. “You like that, you nasty whore? Yeah, that’s right. Take this, you dirty little skeleton!”

            That’s about when my roommate’s girlfriend walked in the living room.

            Needless to say, I was startled. I looked down and noticed, thankfully, I was still in the half-lotus.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

            “Don’t worry,” I said, wondering if I had been talking out loud or making a stupid orgasm face. She wasn’t looking at me funny, so I guess I hadn’t been.

            I got off the couch and walked out front to smoke a cigarette with her. Then I had a bad ass idea. “Hey, Bender. I got this good story about burying a cat. You think you could publish that in The North Texas Review?” The North Texas Review was the literary magazine she edited at school.

            “Sure, honey,” she said.

             In seconds flat, I was on my way to the bathroom to shoot all of my artistic energy into the toilet where it belongs.