Notes from the Upper West Side. A Novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 18. Hopes and the Getting Up of Them.
Note to Jessica. It's not helping to remember how Kami got my hopes up. Note to students studying this work of vengeance and justice a hundred years from now. Getting your hopes up is what we call one of the cruelest things a human can do to a fellow human in the industrialized world anyway.
And not counting things human due to other humans with pliers and piano wire. Maybe they still do it in your century and they call it something more modern like cyber dream jacking work. People dehoping. Maybe you've made it against the law.
I'd like to think that you have. Getting your hopes up means someone deliberately makes you happy. Optimistic. It means they make you visualize a future in which something wonderful has come true for you.
And once you come to believe in the likelihood of that wonderful future, the person who got your hopes up tells you it was a big fat lie so you have to watch that happy future disappear so you can feel like you lost something you never really had to begin with. Getting your hopes up. It's something you can do to yourself. Then it's just stupid.
But when you do it to someone else. That's evil man. When I was a teen, me and my pals paid a chick fifteen bucks to tell a fat pig named Ricky she had a crush on him. Her name was Marcy.
She was a slut. She worked hard at school with this really wide gap like a hooker and we kind of made fun of her for being loose but we all wanted to fuck her anyway and she knew it. I can remember sitting at the table in the cafeteria looking at me with this big smart counter face and relbows on the table while she tore a piece of red up part with her fingers in front of her face. I know you wanna fuck me.
She said do not. I said. She laughed and put the bread in her mouth. Okay well my pussy is nice and tired.
Anyway, we knew that Ricky was beating off to her and didn't even have the smarts to know that he wasn't supposed to act like he didn't want to fuck her. I mean look at you kids. He was a fatty. A girl with a nice ass and a garter gap said she wanted to grab his cock.
What was he going to do? Get coy? Anyway, Marcy got his hopes up. Then while he was watching she came over to our table in the cafeteria to make us pay up.
We could see the look on Ricky's face when we were all laughing. You know that look. That horrible look that says you can't even trust your own happiness anymore because it might just be a bunch of assholes fucking with you. It's the feeling that says you were a chump and the whole world saw it.
That's what it's like for me now. Remembering that first day, Cami came onto me. Now how is that supposed to be therapeutic? You think Ricky was a chump for letting a paid off teen twat get his hopes up?
He was nothing next to me. When Cami framed her contact me, I loved part-bright then. Hey, he delivered right? If it hadn't been for him, it might have been a chucky cheese that day in fingering the barrel of a metaphorical revolver.
So I was glowing all over with the steam from my old pal the Perkster. How's that for chumpiness? I stood there in front of the green screen at Hannibal's demise that day last March, doing my patented non-plus look for the camera and thinking about Cami's cunt. Her just framed cunt.
Her no-doubt sweet cunt. A cunt I'd never seen, but was pretty sure I'd see pretty soon. I thought about what I pronounced. Meat-friendly mound it must be.
I was standing there thinking that as soon as they were done with my close-up, I was going to mount the risers to where she was sitting and close the deal. The head of my dick was moving against my thigh. It was the start of the day's long serial hard-ons you get when you first meet a chicken and you know you're going to fuck her unless one of you gets arrested or disfigured first. And in case you're wondering, no.
I wasn't afraid I'd have to explain Admiral Ball's E-sudden Muscularity to the wife. See, about a year after Sammy was born I had an online babe I was iming for months before it blew over. She lived in Kansas City and she could really talk so filth. She sent me a pic that showed her having this uber-thin waist with a really huge ass with a thong on it that had no chance for survival.
A thong that disappeared into her butt crack like it was lint between sofa cushions. And she stuck that ass out at the camera. Like she was saying, yeah, my ass is huge. Now shut up and put your cock in it.
Hey, I'm pretty sure that's a mainstream fantasy. If it isn't, just remember, I'm an artist. She sent me a sound file of her voice saying, I'm on a liquor ball over and over. At least I played it over and over so I could get her voice down, the lonus, the breathiness, the midwestern accent before I deleted it forever.
I mean, the hard drive is in my living room. We kept chatting about meeting up and for about two weeks I had a cock I could have pushed open French doors with. I was pounding Junior's cunt every day while that was going on until finally she figured I was so into fucking her that it might be worth it to try with holding sex again to see if she could make me do stuff. And it might have worked too.
No kidding. If Junior had asked for a clean exchange of services, then fuck it. She'd have been the boss. Spend Christmas and New Year's at your mother's in exchange for a month of anal.
Sign me up, babe. But Junior could never come right out and tell me what it was she wanted me to do in exchange for the sex she needed me to guess. And I suck at guessing. So all she ended up doing was driving me into the shower for half an hour twice a day.
And through all of that, she never had the slightest clue that the hardons were for the ass crack of some babe from torturing me through my computer. I guess if that happened now, I could I end my Kansas City babe all day. I could leave anything I wanted on the hard drive forever. I was a green saver of suicide girls all bent over with their cunt lips hanging.
And I couldn't even do that. Not unless I wanted to explain cunt lips to the boys and I'm really not up for that. Oh yeah, this is the life taking care of the kids in the summer heat pounding cock to internet porn while the wife bites dick in California. But back on day one of Little Brown Jewish Hat, it was all about Admiral Ballsy.
And the wife was just a, well, she was just a good team player when it came to raising up the kids. Notes from the Upper West Side, copyright 2013 to 2015 by Dan Rench. Notes from the Upper West Side is a work of fiction. The people depicted in this work do not exist.