Feeding the Cat

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On cold days like today, I try to avoid the world. It is simply too damn cold for me. A southern boy living in NYC is like a bullfrog in a Chinese market. Nothing good can ever come out of it.

When Jennifer will return from her late shift around six in the morning, I will let her have it. This time, I will hold nothing back. We have been dating for nearly three months now and we both knew it would end from the first day it all began. In New York City, there was no real reason to stick around with anyone. You were almost guaranteed to meet someone better on the following week. The only thing that held Jenn and myself for this long was the sex, but after a while they all taste like taffy anyways

It was time for this boy to move on to greener pastures, to find a better woman. In my bones, I knew that I deserved much better than this Jennifer character. She was no good from her core. Hopefully, the next one would not mistake my generosity for foolhardiness or my wallet for a bathtub. I always preferred the sweet ones but never really ended up with any of them.

Ever since Jennifer and I got together, it has been shopping hell. What she could not achieve at home with my cock (or her vibrator), she could easily get when she tried on a $300 pair of designer jeans. Like Siamese lace they dripped around her thighs in anticipation of ownership. I should have refused her outrageous requests but Jennifer had a body on her and I was a man.

Worse than Jennifer’s bad habits was her cat “Mr. Jingles”. This one seemed to be just as spoiled as its female owner, they both deserved a quick in the ass. I was somehow in charge of feeding the cat in the evenings while she was working. I could not stand that little feline bastard; he had it in for me from the very first day. Once during sex, he jumped me from the back and left claw marks across my body. Jenn explained that he can get possessive at times but that did not do much in terms of reassurance.
I could not decide whether I should poison the little son of a bitch or simply dump his at some back alley of a Thai restaurant. To the people of Thailand, cat was like chicken or a descent steak. I sounds cruel, I know, but how is killing sheep or cows any different when you think about it?

If I could only drop Jennifer off on some back alley of any Thai restaurant and be done with this entire relationship, life would have been that much simpler. But they don’t serve high maintenance women on the Thai menus and therefore I was stuck.
I went down to Joe’s Pub for a drink. They were serving pints of Yuengling for three dollars. I sat on the long wooden bar and looked around at the regular faces. Joes was our neighborhood bar. They never tried to be anything else besides a regular place for regular people.

Hank Grande was a forty two year old retiree. What he retired from? Now one really knew. Hank never drank beer. He was a Jamieson man. I once asked him about that whole Jamieson business but he was not one for too many words.
“Irish whiskey helps me keep my erection going.” He explained and that was pretty much all I ever found out.

A few pints later, I went out for a cigarette. I don’t really smoke nor do I like smoking. But the alcohol made a difference and I was jonesing for some tobacco in my lungs. Now all I needed was a cigarette and a light, I had neither.
I stood around for a few minutes until she showed up.

“Hey” I poetically remarked.
“Hey.” She replied.
“Got a cigarette?”
“Yea. I do.”
“Can I borrow one?”
“Borrow? Do you promise to give it back once you are done with it?” she smiled.
She handed me a menthol cigarette.
“Is it true that menthol cigarettes actually make your breath smell more fresh?” I replied.
She just smiled as she exhaled.
“My name is Jake.”
“Hey Jake.” She grinned.
“And you are?”
“I am what?”
“What is your name?”
“Stephanie”
“Nice to meet you Stephanie.”
“Nice to meet you Jake.”
We stood there in silence for a few minutes. Stephanie was smoking and I was trying to avoid chocking on the tobacco smoke.
“You are not much of a smoker are you Jake?”
“Who me? What are you talking about? I am a professional.”
“A professional what? You don’t seem to professional at either smoking or lying.” She smiled.
“Are you here with anyone special?” I asked her in an attempt to figure out whether she was single or not.
“I am here with friends. How about you?”
“I am here alone.”
“Do you always drink alone Jake?”
“Only when none of my friends want to drink with me. So what do you say Steph, can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t know Jake, can you?”
“Well I can certainly afford to.”
“Then you might as well.”

We sat back on the long wooden bar where Stephanie introduced me to her two portly friends. They were both beautiful. I ended up buying them all a round of martinis, one dirty, one peach and one Cosmo. Stephanie instructed the bartender to make hers extra dirty.

I do not know why, but somehow I found solace amongst these three women. Stephanie was my favorite by far but the other two also seemed great despite the extra weight that they carried around.

Once again, Stephanie and I went outside for a cigarette. She seemed fairly normal for a New York City woman. She was the kind that read books and avoided television. Such were hard to find these days.

“So tell me there Mr. Jake, are you a single guy?”
“Yes, yes I am. Well, mostly, you know, it is complicated. And how about you?”
“Well, you know Jake, in my life those things are always complicated.”
“Aren’t they always in NYC?”
“Yea, I guess that is always the case around these parts.”
“The key question now Stephanie is do you have any cats back in your place?”
“No I don’t, I only have Rambo.”
“Rambo?”
“My Labrador. He is the biggest sweetheart in the world. How about you Jake, do you have any pets?”
“None that I can recall.”

Unlike Mr. Jingles, Rambo was the kind of an animal that I could relate to. Labradors had better personalities than most people that I have encountered.
While Stephanie and I were screwing on the carpet, he simply sat on the side and watched in wonder, occasionally scratching one part of his body or another. Somehow I felt as if Rambo was pulling for me, as if he was one of my old buddies from back in the day when I was an Undergraduate student at the University of Tennessee.
After a few brief moments of pleasure, we were both done. One more satisfied than the other. But hey, what could I do, it takes time for a woman to find all of the right buttons on a woman. They all had them in different places and none came with a manual.

Stephanie went into the kitchen where she poured some vodka into a tall glass mixer filled with a substantial amount of ice and some cranberry juice. It was getting late and I had to hurry back home before Jennifer would return home.
Before I left, she wrote her telephone number down on a pink piece of scrap paper and placed a smiley face next to her name. We both knew that it would not take too long before I would phone her up. We had magic in our air.

When Jennifer returned from the late night shift she found a simple note on the refrigerator that was written on a white piece of scrap paper:

Sorry Jenn,
But I do not think it is going to work between the two of us.
It is time for this southern boy to move on.
What was missing from the beginning cannot be found.
What was lacking from the start cannot be substituted.
A good-looking girl like you will have no trouble forgetting about
a guy like me, go on and find yourself someone better (it wont take too long)
Thanks for all the good times, I do not regret anything.
PS. Please feed Mr. Jingles, I much prefer dogs to cats.

And then, relieved, I walked home smiling in the early morning cold

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Instant Coffee

Instant Coffee By: Guy Jacobs (www.hardboiledmen.com)

After we made love early on that cold Saturday morning, I went into the well decorated kitchen and made her a cup of instant coffee. Juliet did not own a regular drip coffee percolator. It was not about her inability to afford a fifteen dollar Mr. Coffee machine. It had something to do with those two semesters that she spent out on the western coast of Portugal. There, she came to view American coffee as dull and absent of flavor and where she came to appreciate the elation of instant coffee.

Such was Juliet. From head to toe, her skin shined of irony. It took me a while to find the sugar. Juliet took her coffee with two tall teaspoons of unprocessed organic brown sugar. Juliet took her coffee without milk. She was trying to avoid those unnecessary calories.

Finally, I found it hidden behind the tall bottle of Kosher salt. Juliet’s cabinet was full of food and yet, I could find nothing to eat for breakfast. I made myself a cup of instant as well and came back to bedroom holding on to two green ceramic mugs that displayed foreign letters on their sides.

“You are such a sweetheart,” She said, “You really did not have to bother. I would have eventually gotten out of bed and made you some coffee.”

But she did not and therefore I did.

“Did you put two sugars in my coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you find the organic brown sugar?”

“Yes, I did.”

“David, you are such a sweetie, I can just eat you up alive.” She smiled. The magnificence of her olive oiled skinned unfolded from within her sheets as she warmly readjusted her body in my direction.

How I ever finagled my way into the heaven of her thighs must have somehow involved some sort of divine intervention since I was in no way worthy of such fortune.

“Tell me David, do you agree with David Hume’s assessment that the very supposition that the future resembles the past, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but rather, is derived entirely from habit?” Juliet was the worst kind of a woman for someone like me. She was truly gorgeous and at the same time genuinely intellectual. What she found in a philistine such as myself was beyond me.

I tried to hide my ignorant shame and resorted to a long mindless sip from her green mug. The sweetness of the brown sugar provided me with childish reassurance. I took to adolescent strategies. “I don’t know, what do you think?” I replied.

While she presented her well developed analysis of the multidimensional correlation between reality and one’s own assertion of what reality is, I thought about the last thing that Juliet whispered in my ears seconds before she shivered in climax.

While I was not familiar with David Hume, Emmanuelle Kant and many other of the names that Juliet liked to discuss, I was quit familiar with the female cliterous and with Juliet’s in particular. A man had to choose his area of expertise. I chose the physical over the cerebral.

I picked myself up from the bed and headed towards the balcony where I lit a morning’s cigarette. A cold winter air roamed threw the side streets of my city and warmed me up with its sense of familiarity. From the other room, I could hear Juliet as she was singing along with the radio.

Minutes later she announced that she wanted me to take her out for brunch. She was in the mood for poached eggs and bacon. I had thirteen dollars and sixty eight cents in my pocket and thus argued that I was not particularly in the mood for eggs. We ended up at that same bagel place where one could get a full ledged breakfast for under five dollars.

When we walked into the place, Juliet was thrilled to run into her friend Denis from her interpretive acting seminar. While the two of them engaged in thespian dialogue, I excused myself towards the city street where I would purchase another pack of smokes.

Surveying those fashion magazine covers, I noticed dozens of beautiful women who were smiling at me in synchronization.

All of the women looked way too perfect to be walking amongst us all.

They all carried that cold persona of careful consideration and financial ambition.

And no man of my low status was worthy of their company and no man of my low status was worthy of their flesh.

And yet, earlier on that Saturday morning, she wrapped her teeth around the tender lobe of my ear and in pure ecstasy she whispered, “promise me that you will not finish until I am completely done.”

And so, I did not.

In every large ocean, one small wave rides my name.

In every sky there is a star that shines in my direction.

In every forest there is a single tree that knows my story.

In this small and lonely world, I found my Juliet. David Hume may have been right about the past and he may have been wrong when it came to the future. But such matters were of no consequence to me. The present was all I knew and it essence was captured in her smile.

 

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Female Bosses Part I

When I opened the newspaper on Tuesday, I turned to page A13. There was no particular reason for the selection of that page. I never considered the number 13 to be either lucky or unlucky. I never got that whole 13 thing. How again was it supposed to be a sign of bad luck? Why did most elevators omit the thirteen button? Did it have anything to do with Friday the 13th? Was it a Christian thing? From what I recall Jews considered 13 to be a lucky number than an unlucky one. But Jews were luckier than most, Jewish men that was. At the age of 13 all Jewish boys turned into a men. That was when they celebrated their Bar Mitzvah and got a shitload of gifts, if I correctly recall.

My Jewish friend Jason Gad told me that back in the days fathers would take their thirteen year old boys to the local brothel where they made sure they became men. My father was never as generous. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I grew up in an Atheist family. My atheism never got me anywhere. If I were Jewish and lived back in the day I, then maybe, just maybe, I would not have to wait until the age of nineteen to pop my cherry, but hey, what can I say? One cannot change his past. One cannot turn back the clock and improve his record. And so, when it came to women, I just accepted the way things turned out and never bothered to think about the past too much.

On page A13, the newspaper ran a story about interoffice dynamics and the modern work environment. According to a recent poll conducted by the University of Pennsylvania’s Center for Public Opinion Research, the majority of people preferred to have a male as their boss then they did a female. The numbers got even more interesting when one considered the actual breakdown.

According to the survey, 34% of males preferred to have a male boss, 10% of them preferred a female boss, while the rest of them (56%) did not care either way. As for the women, they were much more adamant about the subject at hand. According to the survey 40% of female survey participants preferred a male boss, 26% of them preferred a female boss, while 32% of them did not care. Clearly women “did not care” less than did males which to me signified that they clearly did care and it was not in the favor of their fellow females.

This of course brought me to the obvious conclusion, one that I have intrinsically known for many years and did not need any newspaper or academic public opinion survey to confirm – Women were never big fans of other women, they never really trusted one another, they never really liked each other.

Yea, yea, I know what women will say, “most of my best friends are female, I have had the same female friends ever since I grew up and they would stand with me through thick and thin.”
That is what they would tell you, but I never believed this propaganda, I know better than that. I have seen enough in my short life and have tasted enough cheeseburgers to know better than to believe anything that they printed in the newspapers, especially when it comes to the New York Times.

Women to women were and always would be snakes; they were the thorn at the side of one another. But forget the analogies and all of those fancy metaphors, that junk is for writers. I am no writer nor am I a scholar of any sorts. I am a waiter. I work at a local TGI Friday’s restaurant. I wear the red and white stripes with much pride. I serve overpriced prepackaged junk food to a bunch of drunk customers who very much like me frequent the place just to catch a quick glance at our overzealous blond waitress whose fake smiles perfectly compliment their tightly packed anatomies.

This brings me to the whole point of the conversation and to that whole page A13 issue. It brings me to the unlikely topic of Jennifer Martin, my 6pm shift manager who recently altered the course of my once peaceful life.
Jennifer was a complete bitch on wheels. Jennifer was the kind of a boss that would make 99 out of a hundred males and females vote in opposition to any female boss regardless of their income level, age or education. Jennifer was the worst woman of all. She was menstruated 31 days out of the month. She housed the devil between her ears. She houses everyone else between her legs (with the exception of yours truly).

Jennifer was not a misunderstood person. She is clearly understood and the understanding pointed to her malevolence. There were not many good things that one could say about Jennifer even if they tried really hard. That of course was with the exception of her lovely tits. They were huge and they are real. They were the kind that would make any heterosexual male and every bicurious woman take a careful look and painfully yearn for nothing but a quick taste of God’s great creation.
Did I mention that I preferred the fake ones? I never understood why anyone preferred naturals. Fake tits never dropped. Real ones eventually did. Of course there were exceptions. But with fake ones, you never had to deal with physics. They always stood up right no matter if the woman was twenty five or fifty two years of age. I was always a big fan of huge tits. There was no particular reason for that. Like most men, I had no real utility for them, I sometimes just felt like sticking my face in between that cushioned valley and tossing my nose from side to side. Talk about exercise. Look at all of those things that men would do to burn off calories. So ladies, any volunteers out there? Leave a message on my answering machine. I usually checked my voicemail late on Wednesdays; sometimes I checked them early on Thursday mornings. Ladies, do you want to show off your true nature? Send a few photos to my PO Box and wait for a reply.

But Jennifer, she never called, she never left a message nor did she ever send any revealing photos in the mail. She must have been too busy fucking our restaurant manager, Mark Epstein (The Second). That guy was falsely assembled at the factory. Someone accidently misplaced his ass in the same location where his face should have been positioned. After all, what else would account for the large amounts of bullshit that came out of his mouth on the daily?
To someone who did not know any better, it may seem that I was simply jealous of Mark, jealous of another man’s ability to go to places where I have never ventured before. But such was not the case. Such would simply be a misinterpretation of my true nature. I was not the jealous type. However, I could be described as the covetous type.
But this whole Jennifer story had nothing to do with Mark Epstein (The Second); it had nothing to do with Jennifer’s perfect pair of tits or with the fact that I had not had sexual relations with any woman in twelve days, three hours and seventeen long minutes.

Everything that had to do with Page A13 only reminded me of Jennifer Martin. But I tend to misrepresent. Jennifer was never anything but nice to me in the year and a half that she served as my boss. She was a fair boss, she never busted my balls and she was always good for a late night drink. Everything between the two of us was always good until that day that she introduced me to Lisa Nguyen, her best friend and old college roommate from Colorado State University.
At closing time, a few days ago, we all gathered around the bar, counted tips and told stories about the idiotic customers that we encountered on that night. Everything was pretty much as ordinary, good times and free drinks. Jody was working the bar that night. After all the customers left, she let the drinks flow like butter on a ham. Free drinks always tasted better than those you had to pay for. It was one of the key perks of wearing the old red and white suspenders.

Jody and Jennifer were laughing with Bruce, our assistant manager. I just smiled and enjoyed the moment, thinking what it would be like to see naked at my side. Around 1am, Jennifer’s cell phone rang. I suspected that we would soon encounter Mr. Mark Epstein (The Second) but was soon happy to head Jenn announce that Lisa visiting from out of town.
Lisa and I met a few times before. She recently moved out to Delaware where she worked as an admission’s counselor at some small private university. Apparently, there was not much to do around Newark, DE (pronounced Ne-Wark as opposed to Ne-Work, NJ) and so she would hop in her car on weekends and find her way to our TGIF.

The last time we all met was a few weeks ago. Jenn and Lisa got all drunk and dragged me back to Jenn’s apartment were we all played Karaoke on her Sony Playstation. They must have gone through an entire rendition of songs from the 80s and 90s that almost drove me nuts. Jennifer loved Brittney Spears and I had no choice but to play along. The worst was when they made me join them in a drunk version of the Spice Girls song, If You Want To Be My Lover.
One that night, after all the singing and boozing, Lisa and I made out while Jenn passed out on the couch. I tried my best to stick my busy fingers under Lisa’s tiny Asian bra but she would have none of it.
And now, here she was, once again, she was all smiles.

Jody made Lisa her favorite cocktail, a Gray Goose dirty martini with an extra shot of olive juice and two extra shots of vodka. Soon enough, Lisa was ready to go. But it was getting late and Jennifer was too tired to party on that night. And besides, Mark was waiting for her to show up at his place. They planned a big trip to Upstate on the following morning and she really needed to catch some sleep.

To my surprise, Jennifer suggested that I would be the one to take Lisa out and show her a good time. This brings me back to page A13 of the New York Times. When the survey participants had to answer whether they preferred a male to a female boss, no one ever mentioned to them just how gorgeous their female boss would be, how amazingly hot their old college roommates would be and how the rest of the night turned out.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Bukowski and Books

Question: Who is your favorite author?

Answer: Hold on, don’t answer just yet; think about it for a moment.

According to a recent survey, more than 89 million Americans DID NOT read a book in 2007 (US National Endowment for the Arts). Meantime, those who do read tend to focus on non fiction and how to books:

How to lose 50 pounds in 50 days?
How to become a millionaire in three months?
How to make a man commit?
How to make a woman orgasm?
How to win friends and influence people?
How to tell if a man is marriage material?
How to know who is going to win an election simply by looking at candidates’ height and age?

And then there is fiction. You know, those books that are not written in bullets. Then can not be summarized by Top 10 lists. When it comes to fiction, most Americans seek advice from the grand marshal herself Mrs. Oprah Winfrey, if you make it to her list, you are pretty much guaranteed a spot on the best seller list and there is nothing wrong with that. One occasion, she gets it absolutely right (and at times she did not).

So what do most Americans read? Well, there are those author giants such as J. K. Rowling, James Patterson, John Grisham, Danielle Steel, Dean Koontz and Josephine Cox. Much like any local Wal-Mart store, these authors each dominate sales in their own genre. There is nothing particularly wrong with any of these authors. Most of them found the formula to America’s taste in literature (and pocketbooks) and have thus dominated top seller lists for years.

What scares me more than anything, however, are the millions of readers who never heard of the classics and by classics, I am not referring to Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe or Jules Verne.

I am referring to more contemporary authors; those authors who dared to piss off the corporate establishment and thus ended, at times, with the short end of the literary stick.

Take Charles Bukowski as an example. Charles Whom? You ask?

Henry Charles Bukowski was a German-American poet slash author who managed to publish dozens of books of poetry, short stories and fiction in his short seventy four years on this earth (mostly spent in LA bars). Thanks to the vision of John Martin and his Black Sparrow publication, Hank dedicated himself to sitting down and writing books (in addition to his love for the poem as he described it). The marriage between Black Sparrow and Bukowski proved magical and resulted in such great works of literature as Ham on Rye, Post Office, Women and Factotum. Bukowski whose work was largely inspired by such authors as John Fante, Louis-Ferdinand Céline and Anton Chekhov has inspired a new generation of contemporary authors such as Guy Jacobs, Dan Fante and Tom Paine.

You would think that an author like Bukowski who wrote about getting laid, drinking heavily and under-advantaged fist fighting would attract the attention of those younger male readers who themselves are trying to accomplish much of what Hank Bukowski worked towards and yet, that is not the case.

I recently searched through Charles Bukowski groups on both Facebook and Myspace. There, I discovered that the majority of Bukowski fans came from such corners of the world as Turkey, Slovenia, France and Belgium. Most of them were women as well. This is not a big surprise. Women tend to read more than males, especially those under the age of twenty five (the guys are too busy with looking at online pornography, playing video games and jerking off).

There is much more to be written about the topic of literature and books. Although, most of us authors do somewhere, somehow acknowledge that writing and reading is a dying art (thank you media convergence). Still we do it because this is who we are and this is what we do.

For those of you who are wondering which books you should pick up next, here is a list of recommendations:

1. Sexus by Henry Miller
2. The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski
3. Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski
4. Ask the Dust by John Fante
5. Hard Boiled Men by Guy Jacobs
6. Straight Man by Richard Russo
7. Portnoy’s complaint by Philip Roth
8. Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut
9. For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
10. A Fan's Notes by Frederick Exley

That is all for today, get off of your computer and go read a book

What Men Don't Know About the Female Orgasm

www.hardboiledmen.com

John May woke up early that morning for no apparent reason. He brewed up a pot of coffee on that old Mr. Coffee machine that he held on to ever since his graduate school days. If it ain’t broke, why bother to buy a new one, he thought. The cold wind that ran through the streets of Pittsburg did not provide enough incentive for John to put a pair of sweatpants on. In his underwear, he greeted the morning.

John May was the kind of a guy who enjoyed his morning routine and nothing was more central to that routine than the old cup of cup and reading the morning newspaper. John did not have much interest in the news sections, the financials or even the sports. He was the kind of a man who read between the lines searching for a clue. Of course, one could theoretically argue that John was a bit of a conspiracy theory but that was not the case at all (or maybe it was). John knew the ways of the media. He had an undergraduate degree in journalism and knew all about newsroom routines, gatekeeping and media framing. In between the lines was the way that those in charge communicated with one another. In between the advertorials, editorials and daily columns, in the fine print, that was where the truth was hidden from the reading masses.

On page A5 John came across a clue. The headline could not be more convincing.

52% OF WOMEN NEVER EXPERIENCED AN ORGASM, the headline read.

This was exactly the kind of a thing that made you wonder. And if it did not make you wonder, thought John, well at least it should.

Back in the old days, he ran across old Herb Schiller his journalism professor back at the University of California at San Diego. Schiller told the class that they should never believe anything they read in the newspaper.

“Everything that you read in the newspaper, hear on the radio or watch on television is nothing short of a corporate conspiracy to turn you into a better consumer. Those people want you to equate your happiness with the art of shopping. Had a bad day at work, buy some shoes. Your boyfriend cheated on you, take his credit card and get some shopping therapy. Don’t believe anything that they say.” That was the kind of a lecture that would often be heard in Schiller’s seminars. John May loved every part of it. It made sense when you really thought about it.

The coffee tasted a bit rusty that morning. Maybe Pam was right after all. Maybe it was time to buy a new coffee maker and throw away the old dusty machine that he bought at Target for ten dollars more than three years ago.

But what about the headline, he thought could this really be true? Fifty two percent seemed a bit excessive to John. And what those other forty eight percent, he thought. Was it a function of psychology or was it all the guy’s fault as he heard many of his female friends argue. Thinking back to those five women that he somehow managed to lay so far in his short twenty five year career, he could not remember if 2.6 of those women actually did or did not reach sexual climax.

The first time he did it was sometime back in high school. He was a frightened pimple faced junior and she, an overweight twenty four year old woman who seemed more bored than anything on her overextended semester break. Thinking back of that night, he felt nothing but shame when he recalled just how quickly he came just as soon as he felt that incredible touch of the female flesh for the very first time in his life.

Her name was Lucy and she did not protest. She was more of a resourceful type than a complainer. She simply walked into the shower, cleaned herself up and then forced him to eat her out until should reached satisfaction.

Then there was that girl that he met during freshman orientation back at UCSD . She was a stacked woman with enough meat on her to feed a small village in Bangladesh. John did not remember her name. When he thought about it, he never did know it in the first place. They somehow stumbled into bed after a freshman party back in the dorms. John did not have any condoms on him but she insisted on penetration. Twenty seconds later, her sizeable stomach was painted in the colors of white apprehension. She gave him a dirty look and then proceeded to transfer into the bed of his roommate who pretended to be sleeping. John stared at the dorm ceiling as he listened to his roommate Dave give the girl a proper fuck. Ten minutes passed and then he heard a woman come for the first time. Was she faking it out of spite for his non-proficient performance or did Dave really supply the goods. 48% says that it was spite over Dave.

Then there was Patty, the girl he briefly dated during senior year. Patty came from a small town in Alabama. He could not remember if it was Tuscaloosa or someplace right in the area. Patty was a nice girl. She was always kind to John and was the one who taught him how to manage his erections and hold on to them for just a bit longer. She showed him how at a simple push of the external vein, right at the base of the cock, he could buy himself a few more seconds inside.

When it came to Patty Valentine, John had no doubts. If anyone had an orgasm it was her. How did he know? Well she always made a point to announce. Clinching on to his skin, grinding her teeth and pulling his hair she rotated her hips all around, closed her eyes, scratch her nails until she finally shout out that old slogan of the Alabama football team: GOOOOOOOO TIIIIIEEEEDDDD.

Patty loved the University of Alabama football team. This she made clear every Saturday when she watched SEC football. This she made clear on those rare occasions when he managed to hold on long enough to validate the newspaper’s statistics.

John managed to fall in love with Patty Valentine and things were going pretty well until graduation. They talked about moving in together. They talked about graduate school out in Iowa State were John was admitted into a Master’s degree with a guaranteed research stipend for his first three semesters. Things were moving along on track until Patty flew down to Alabama to visit her family a few weeks after graduation. There she met up with her old high school sweetheart Dale Gary who not only played high school football for the champion Cougars but was also a walk on defensive end for the University of Louisiana Raging Cajun football team.

John was crushed when he heard the news. Patty never bothered to fly back to deliver the news face to face. It all happened so quickly over the phone. John tried to reason with her, to win her sympathy, to appeal to her love, but none was left for him. He had no choice but to move on.

After Patty, John took a break from women. They were creatures of betrayal, he thought. Their only loyalty was to their own interests. They knew nothing of a man’s heart.

It was two years later that Pamela came into his world. Pam was not an attractive woman but at least she was nice. At first she refused anything beyond friendship. Why ruin a good thing with all of those complications? She often told him when he tried to come close and kiss her.

Pam introduced John to her girlfriends as her heterosexual gay friend. John never really connected with any of those types. But on one particular Friday night they were playing drinking games and John had way too much to drink. The only thing that he recalled was waking up naked next to Pam’s most horrendous looking friend, Michelle. Nothing was to ever be spoken of that night, he pledged. The shame was beyond him. Number four would be kept secret for as long as possible. He only hoped that Pam would never find out about the events that took place on that night. Despite his best hopes, Michelle told her all but Pam did not seem to mind.

About a year later, to his surprise, Pam turned into number five. He could not be any happier.

John stared at the newspaper headline and scratched his head. There was so much that he did not know about women. Unfortunately, he did not too many male friends to give him any advice.

Later one, when Pam woke up, she poured herself some Hazelnut creamer into her rusty cup of coffee.

“Don’t believe everything that you read in the newspaper John. That statistic could only be written by a man and obviously, a relatively ignorant one. The real numbers are much lower than you would think. I even doubt that 33% of women ever experienced a multiple orgasm and numbers may actually be lower.

John was never that good when it came down to statistics. Back when he was an undergraduate student, he barely passed the Introduction to Business Statistics course with a below average grade of C-. As for women, newspaper headlines and the rest of the world, John all but understood that he will never truly understand.

“Did you ever have a real orgasm with me?” he asked of Pam.

She in turn simply smiled and said, “Well of course I did sweaty, you gave me many.”

John felt better for a moment until he recalled that university lecture back in his undergraduate days at UCSD where he learned not to trust anything that was printed in the newspaper, heard on the radio or seen on TV but more than anything else he learned never to trust the smile of a more experienced woman.

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Men Who Cheat, Or Do They?

What She Knows, She Knows
www.hardboiledmen.com

It was not such a big surprise to hear her complain so bluntly about how she thought that New York City was totally overrated and that she did not see what the big deal was all about. Anyone who follows the typical tourist routine, sleeps at a Theater District hotel, eats a $14 pastrami sandwich down at the Carnegie Deli and goes shopping in those mega stores that stole the city's very soul away might very likely confuse New York for something it is not, tourist hell on crack.

The last time Antonia and I met, things were very different. She was a young college student at the University of Sienna, and I, a traveling journalist who was working on a new book that dealt with the historical sexual curiosities of the Tuscan people. The city of Sienna is nothing like New York City. The city of Sienna is like no other city in the world. With its small roads, car free street, Renaissance architecture and old stone buildings, it was hardly similar to where we found ourselves so many years later.

By now, Antonia was a relatively successful art saleswoman who worked in a fashionable gallery situated along Porta Volta Avenue in Milan. By now, I have published one more book, this one, an academic account of the basic conflict within the American psyche in regards to sexuality and Puritanism.

Antonia was a bit heavier than I remembered her to be. She of course must have thought the same.

But that was not the main area of contention on this unexpected reunion. The main issue was Jenny, my girlfriend of two years.

When I first heard her voice on the phone, I froze if only for a moment. Nothing that I could Jenny could reassure her in regards to my old Italian flame. Antonia was the stuff of legend. Her sexuality well documented as well as inspiration to my works and writings (using pseudo-names of course).

Things would not be nearly as bad if it wasn't for all the difficulties Jenny and I are having these days. To be perfectly honest, things are not going that well between the two of us these days. In the sack we are strangers, in the living room just as bad.

And now Antonia came back into my life even if only for a short visit. She is no longer a woman in my eyes. She has no faults nor bad memories attached. She was and will always be the highlight, the one I left behind, the one that got away and now she came back into my sphere and things are about to get messy in my life.

I agreed to meet her down by Pennsylvania Station. She took the train from Philadelphia and would arrive on time. We checked her carry on into the Pennsylvania Hotel across the street. Her room would not be ready until around 3pm.

Jenny would not be back from work until 6pm. I had some time to steal.

We walked around and looked around the buildings. Antonia immediately disliked the city. She did not like the large quantity of people, the bums who asked for change, the noise of traffic and ambulance sirens that rang across the ears.

In Sienna, I remembered, we used to walk around the tiny streets every evening around 7:30pm. We were not the only ones. Everyone took a walk around this magical town when the sun began to yield. The great square beneath the church was filled with friends and neighbors who strolled along the Old Italian tradition.

This sucks she said, NYC is nothing but a huge shopping mall for fat American tourists. I held her by the hand and walked her down the subway station. Heading down towards the lower east side, I would show her the real New York, the Old New York, my New York.

Like the monthly cycles of a woman, this city had many faces and not all were easy for us men to digest.

A bottle of red wine down on Grand Street was not the true catalyst for the tension that was about us.

Antonia knew that I was no longer her man. She herself was not entirely available as Marco was waiting for her back in Milano.

But time cannot fix what time cannot mend. Once there, it is never gone. Once felt, it is always there.

Two people who were once in love sat across the table. One glows with wonder and youth, the other beaten by the years. Neither one is the cheating type, not the man nor the woman.

They talk about it out load, think of it internally.

When I saw Jenny that night, I held her hand and kissed her fingers. What she knows is what she knows and what I know is mine.


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Life is Life

It has been more than four months since I last smoked a joint. Four months but who is counting? I am.

Marijuana is not addictive, at least, physically it is not.

But life, life always gets in the way of sanity. With nothing to smoke and a general lack of tolerance for alcohol, there is not much to do besides go insane.

The worst part of it all is that the majority of people that I hang out with in this city do not smoke. How they manage life is beyond me. Most of them live on a supplementary diet of Lexapro, Effexor, Cymbalta, Zoloft or Prozac. Most of them mix a bunch. But not me, I was never one for pharmaceuticals.

The most annoying thing is that these people see no irony in their condescending ways.

Take Josh for instance, he may just be the perfect example.

We met up in the coffee shop like we always do. He and his bullshit stories about the movie business, his auditions and all of the women he is screwing on a regular. I could easily sniff through people’s lies, and this guy was not exception. Josh was more likely to take one up the ass than he is to eat a piece of pussy pie.

“So what’s new Mr. Hollywood?” I asked.
“Oh my God, you would never believe the week I had. I am so close to getting an agent I tell you. I can just feel it. Last Tuesday, I had a second call for an audition. It is for an off Broadway but this is something big I tell you. This could be the break I was looking for.”

He went on and on but I was not really listening. By now, I just learned how to shut people off. I was too old for their bullshit. So why did I keep people around? Well, it beat the hell out of staring at the walls of my apartment.

After he told me about the blond with the huge tits that begged him for more. After he further went into details about the casting agent and the producers that he met at the grand opening of the Itch Gallery down in Soho. After he went on and on. I could stand it no more.

“You know Josh, if I don’t score some Marijuana soon, I may just go insane. Can’t you score me a dime bag from one of your homo friends down in Chelsea? Can’t you hook a brother up?”

“Oh grow up already, will you? What kind of a forty year old still smokes pot anyways? Gosh, don’t you think it is kind of pathetic to smoke weed at your age? And you, a university professor and all, what will become of you? What if somebody found out?”

What will become of me? What will become of any of us? I do not know.

Life is life and life is hard enough. Somehow, someway, we all find a way to get by.

Read More From Guy Jacobs

Hollywood by Charles Bukowski

I am not quit sure why it took me so long to pick up Hollywood by Charles Bukowski. The book was just sitting around the shelf for years. Like most others, I read Ham on Rye, Women and Post Office on several occasions. Any of us Bukowski fans recognize Hank for the genius that he was.

No, this old drunk is nothing like the great authors of the 20th Century. His writing style is flat compared to the great ones that they make you read in your Introduction to the American Classic course at collgate university, Dartmouth or Amherst College. But New England universities never hired the kind of professors who had the balls (or tenure) to teach old Hank Bukowski to their students.

By I digress.

So let’s go back to Hollywood. The novel not the city.

As always Hank provides us readers with thoughts about the breakdown of society, the colorful characters that he encountered and just how lame he thinks the world can be.

And he may be correct at times.

As always he is drinking. Beer, wine, vodka. As long as it is cheap. As long as it is free. As long as it is there. Henry Chinaski never asked twice.

Hank never tries to be anything that he is not. And that is exactly why his fiction works. Honesty above style.

The entire book tells the tale of the screenplay that he had to write for Hollywood producers. For what may have been the movie Barfly staring Mickey Rourke and Faye Dunaway.

Of course, he did not use their names.

Hollywood works. Bukowski’s work usually did ever when he did not.

For the early Bukowski readers, do not start here.

Women or Post Office is the place to begin.

For those of you who read all that Hank could write (which I doubt), pick up Ask The Dust or Wait Until Spring, Bandini. Arturo Bandini was Hank’s influnence. That is, John Fante.

I am too tired to run spell check. If I messed up, please don’t call the cops.

As long as you are reading you are living. What you read does not matter just as much.

Guy

*Guy Jacobs is the Author of Hard Boiled Men

New York University Tales

Calling Ms. Jamaica, Part 1

For More From Guy Jacobs

I looked at my watch. It was 5:16pm. There was no need to rush. There were still ten minutes or so until the train was scheduled to arrive. I walked up the station’s platform careful not to spill any of the coffee on my shoes. There were only a dozen or so people waiting there. Most undergraduates tended to wait until the last minute before they showed up for the train or did anything else. I parked myself on a wooden bench where a blind woman sat. She held on to a painted stick and hummed a familiar song.

“How are you today?” I politely asked.

“I am doing just fine, thank you very much. Now, tell me Mr. do you happen to know when the next train into the city will be arriving?”

“It should be arriving here in about ten minutes or so, but you know how late these trains tend to run. The train schedule is not all that dependable.”

“Nothing in this world ever is.” She said and kept on humming that same familiar tune. Somehow it put me at ease.

I turned to Chapter five of the book that I was reading and lost myself with in its pages. Wrapped in stillness and a fluid breeze that flowed through the rain station’s corridor, I somehow managed to forget all about everything that bothered me, if only for a comfortable moment.

This peaceful moment was crushed just as soon as she arrived

“Hey, do any of you happen to have a bottle opener?” she asked.

I studied her with a slide of the head. Holding on to the bottle and a mischievous smile uncommon to a woman her age, she was the ruin of all men.

I pretended not to be interested but she knew better. She was a seasoned warrior. It would take much more than my pretty blue eyes to withstand her resolve. Before I said a single word, she was fully cognisant of just how lonely I have become.

I reached back into my deep pocket and pulled out my keychain. On its outer edge was a cheap plastic beer bottle opener.

“Here you go,” I offered, “but first, you must tell me where that gorgeous accent is from.”

“Well, why don’t you try and take a guess.” She offered.

“Well, I am no expert, but I would guess that you are from United Kingdom, England, I would say. Somewhere in London, but then again, it could be anywhere.”

She repositioned her body as she leaned in my direction, “Well, you are not entirely wrong. I do live in London at the moment but I was actually born and raised in the beautiful island of Jamaica.”
“Jamaica, no shit?”

“No shit,”

Her pale white skin seemed as Jamaican as a piece of Gefilte fish. But then again, I did once hear about the fact that Jamaica was home to many ethnicities such as Indians, Chinese, Arabs and whites.

“And where in London do you live?” I asked as if I knew anything about London. True, I did visit the place on many occasions but that was mostly for academic conferences and such. I was not that familiar with the place.

“I live in Shepherd's Bush, do you know where that is?” she asked.
“No, not really.” I smiled. In an attempt to disguise my overall ignorance of London’s geography, I tried to impress using an alternative approach.
“And so, what is your soccer team?”
“My soccer team? I can only assume that you are referring to football?”
“English football. Here we call it soccer.”
“Sorry, but it was football in the rest of the world way before you guys came around.”
“Whatever you say,” I smiled, “so what is your team? Arsenal? Manchester United? Liverpool?”
“None of the above. I am not all that into sports but if I had to choose, I would say Tottenham Hotspur, have you ever heard of that team?”
I did not. Strike Two.
“So what brings you to this little Podunk town?”
“Podunk?” she asked.
“You know, small, tiny, insignificant little town.
“Oh yea? It did not look all that bad.”
“It is not that bad, it is just small, really small. Don’t get me wrong, I like this place. It must pale in comparison to London. Am I right?”
She nodded her head in agreement. “I actually came out here for a fashion shoot.”
“A fashion shoot? You must be shitting me. Where would you possibly go for a fashion shoot around these parts?”
“We shot out by the creek early this morning and then again in the afternoon. God, I almost froze my tits out there.” She smiled.

Once again, I carefully surveyed her body, trying not to look too obvious. She was pretty enough all right but did not seem like the model type. She had a bit more meat on her than the average model that one may see in a magazine. Nevertheless, there was something about the way in which she carried herself. She seemed comfortable within her skin. She exploded with the milk of life.

I tried to make her out but my attempts at physical assessment were hindered by the overcoat that she wore. I could not tell what kind of a body she was hiding under it.

“So tell me more about this fashion shoot that you were involved in. What are you, the photographer?”
“No, I am a model. Why? Do I look like a photographer?” she asked.
“Well, I am not sure, what does a photographer look like anyways?”
“Well, they don’t look like anything but they don’t look like models now do they?”
“I don’t know, I can only guess that some do.” I tried to dig myself out of the hole that I dug.

But this one did not care, she was just busting my balls. She had a good sense to her this woman. She almost seemed as casual as an old friend.
“So what do you do around these parts?” She asked.
“Me? I teach at the university. I am an American literature professor.”
“Not bad,” she smiled, “I love to read. Not necessary American literature, I most prefer the Europeans, but you guys had some descent writers.”
“Oh yea, which American readers do you like?”
“You know, all of the basics, Mark Twain, Hemingway, Thoreau, Henry James, Jack London.”
Stunned, I turned in her direction. This woman must have been just as young as any of my students and seemed to have a better grasp of any of them combined.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked, “are you a model or are you a student of literature. How the hell do you know about all of these writers?”
“Why are you so surprised? I mean doesn’t everyone know these writers here in America?”
“No one under the age of thirty is any. Not anyone who was born after 1981.”
Her sarcastic smile soon appeared, “Well, I was actually born in 1984, if you must know.”
“Well dear girl, I am impressed. Most of my undergraduate students are about your age and most of them never ever heard of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Most of them think that This Side of Paradise is a daytime soap opera.”
“Well, I never read that one.” She slid her tongue across her healthy lip. “And how about you professor, who do you like to read?”
“That all depends,” I smiled, “Are we talking American, European, world authors? What?”
“Let’s start with Americans.”
“Well, I wrote my dissertation about Henry Miller. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Of course I have,” she protested.
“Not Arthur Miller,” I clarified, “We are not talking about the guy who wrote The Death of A Salesman.”
“Yea, I know, Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer Henry Miller, Henry and June Henry Miller.”
“Well, you know. Henry and June is actually based on the writings of Anais Nin, Henry’s lover.”
“Yea, I know. I love Anais Nin, you know A Spy in the House of Love is one of my favorites.”
Where has this woman come from and how could it be? I wondered. So many years have gone by. So many students have come and gone fro my writing workshops and seminars and none seemed as bright as this white skinned, Aryan Jamaican girl who claimed to have lived in London and be a fashion model. Life was always so much stranger than fiction. I tried to hide my enthusiasm. By now the very thought of a quick one night stand with her was replaced with thoughts about three children, a large house in the Hamptons and a dog. But I had to be careful. This one was as clever as she was young. She was as sophisticated as she was tender. I pondered my next move as the train slowly made its way into the station. We both knew that this conversation is to be continued on the train although there was no reason for such assumptions other than the fact that we were both still smiling at one another.

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Those Blond Girls

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After seminar, I headed over to Human Resources. Those fuckers called me down to their office for the God knows how many time. Apparently, I once again failed to properly fill out the direct deposit application. If I knew just how much trouble it would cause, I would have never have switched banks. The service at my old bank was more than satisfactory and they never overcharged for any transaction. Really, there was no reason to switch banks.. Well, that is, there was a reason, but it was no a good one.

Her name was Julie and we met at a happy hour down at Jimmy’s Tavern down on Thompson Street. She was just sitting there looking all blond and official with the smell of corporate America lingering around her stuffy black business suite. She looked good. These kind of women don’t find their way to these kind of joints. We usually recruit from the bottom of the barrel.

“So excuse the cliché, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Why, what is wrong with this place?” she asked.
“What’s wrong? What can I tell you? Nothing and everything. It is just that we usually don’t get such pretty girls around here.”
“A friend of mine from the bank told me about this place. He said they have good cheap drinks, a good atmosphere and old time rock and roll. He did however warn me about the kind of characters that hang out around this place. Would you happen to be one of those characters”
“Well, I am not sure if I am one of those characters. But like most people, I am a character. Know what I mean?”
“Not really, but whatever.” She smiled.
She was a descent type for such an attractive woman. I never really had the chance to associate with one of these types. That of course was with the exception of those busty blond sorority girls that I always encountered in my introduction to American literature class. After I bought her a couple of drinks I tried to hit her up for her home telephone number or her cellular but she played hard to get.
“Sorry John, but I don’t give my number away to men that I meet in bars, especially not a bar like this one.”
“Hey, what’s wrong with this bar?” I asked.
“Nothing and everything, you know.” She laughed.
Eventually, she gave me her business card and walked out of the place. I watched her ass wiggle across that tight business skirt along that arousing foxtrot that took place at the edge of those shiny long legs. I was not the only one.

I slowly read the fine print that read:

Julie A. Smith
Senior Loan Officer
Downtown Branch

The next day, I opened a bank account at the downtown branch. Julie was no where in sight. I found several excuses to return to the bank. I came in for a debit card. I made a few deposits. I made a few withdrawals. Julie was nowhere in sight.
A few days later, I discovered that Julie had a boyfriend named Steve. He was the assistant bank manager.

By this point it was too late to go back to my old bank and that dusty old lady that served as my personal account representative.

So there I stood in the Human Resources office, reapplying once again for a direct deposit of my university salary. This time, I asked the lady at the counter to guide me through the process.

This whole bank account story was just another example of bad judgment. But what could a man do? None of us could resist. As I said before, I never really had the chance to associate with this kind of a woman.

That of course, with the exception of those busy blond sorority girls that always managed to get a B+ better in my Introduction to American Literature courses.

Free Cheddar Nation

The thing I hate most about supermarkets are those free sample displays that are scattered all over those random corners of the store. They usually throw the samples into plastic containers where tiny bits of cheddar cheese are divided into dozens of even tinnier pieces of crud. Don’t get me wrong, those things taste pretty good and they are free, but what about that very fundamental issue of personal hygiene?

When you charge people for things, they show no shame in displaying just how truly anal they are. Did any of you pay any sort of attention to how people order their coffee drinks in any of those chain coffee shops? Maybe it is just a New York City thing. Maybe it just has to do with those characters who live on the upper east side. But I mean, come on, where do these people come from? Only this morning I saw one of those socialites order a cup of coffee. Actually it was not coffee the way she ordered it. It was more like a advanced placement science project.

I’ll have a skinny latte macchiato, half caf, half decaf with soy foam and please, make sure it is at 125 degrees, I don’t like it when my coffee is lukewarm, she explained.

That’s how she drinks her coffee this woman does. How the poor Puerto Rican kid behind the counter even figured that one out? God bless his soul.

So apparently, when we pay for things, we all allow ourselves to become complete pains in the ass, but when it comes to the free stuff, the rules adjust.

Just before I reached over for some of that old yellow fermented stuff, I noticed a corpulent woman who stuffed her overburdening fingers into the plastic container and took not one nor two but about six tiny squares and just scooped them out of the sample tray and straight into her hungry blowhole.

She was a foul one that woman was but not nearly as disgusting as that skinny awkward Minnesota type who stood over six feat tall and was wearing his torn Twins T-Shirts that he likely bought during their last playoff run more than two decades ago.

To say that this guy abused the very concept of a sampling display would be the understatement of the year. This guy was out for the kill. He seemed to believe with all of his Midwestern heart that there was such a thing as a free lunch and it took place right here on aisle 12 of the Megamart.

The guy had a system. He pretended to be sampling, not eating. Or at least, that was his apparent rational. But his system was as foolish as that red and yellow Gophers cap that he sported on his head. He took three pieces every time and then he would take a break and let the next person in line sample a piece for himself.

Pretty good cheese, he would say and then reach over for another sample. The way he saw it I suppose was not that he was a free cheese hog but rather a good neighbor and ambassador for the Cheddar cheese nation.

The sizeable woman and the tall Norwegian held conversation for several minutes while stuffing themselves on free yellow cheddar.

You realize of course, he told her, that not all cheese is actually made from cow’s milk. You have such varieties as Acapella and Humboldt Fog that are made out of goat milk. There is buffalo cheese, cheese made from the milk of camels, mare, yak and even lamas.

I never really knew that, she seemed to be embarrassed. To be perfectly honest, she confessed that she was somewhat lactose intolerant and was not a huge fan of the yellow stuff.

So why are you eating from this display of Cheddar? He was curious to know.

Well, you know, it is free so I just figured what the heck.

They continued to talk about cheese and milk and cows and camels and then walked over together to the meat department where they served free sampled of Bavarian sausages.

If those only knew, those people, I thought to myself that right before they came around, I stuck my hands into those piles of cheddar.

If they only realized how I stood there so compact and sweaty inside that downtown Nine train holding on to those very hand rails that so many thousands of other perspiring New Yorkers held on to every day in search of balance.

Ten minutes earlier I walked into the super store where I noticed free sample trays of Cheddar cheese. After throwing my hands all around the piles of food, I realized that I was likely carrying thousands of miniature colonies of Staphylococcus who were forming their troops in preparation of an imminent invasion of some poor man or woman’s large intestine.

So filthy were my hands that I decided to wash them both before and after urination. As I returned to the sample tray I noticed a large woman who stood besides a tall man. The two were devouring the free samples of cheese that were by now as polluted as the toxic waters of the Hudson river.

This is the main problem with people, I thought to myself, they could never resist anything if it was given to them for free.

Next time you walk into the whole food store, think about personal hygiene, think about tall Norwegian men and fat woman who chew away the free fat of life without knowledge of what came before.

The young woman who stood at the cash register had long streams of brunette hairs that were flowing down the path of her shoulder.

It has been more than a month since Sylvia and I last spoke on the phone.

God I miss that woman.

Hard Boiled Men

Podcast NYU Tales

LA comedian and actress Anna Becker reads a chapter from the award winning novel, Hard-Boiled Men.
This chapter deals with a young graduate student at NYU that is forced to choose between attending a class led by the great Herbert Schiller or making it with a young Asian girl, which will he choose?

http://digg.com/comedy/NYU_Tales_Podcast

God Just Laughs

There are people around this town who walk around wearing three-piece business suites. If we lived in New York City, it would all make sense. Maybe it would make some sense in Chicago or the nicer parts of Hollywood. But around this tiny town? I mean, come on man.

The August sun feels no remorse towards people who walk around in pinstripe Giorgio Armani suites. No business deal can be worth withstanding this crazy heat.

But some people around these parts do not mind and I am always one to say, “Live and let live”.

The August sun feels no remorse towards my shaved head. I had lost the majority of my hair back when I was in my mid thirties. Those were some rough days back then for this cowboy.

As my old kindergarten teacher always told us studs : “You can not take back stupid.”

Her name was Shelly and she was the woman that I loved.

Her name is still Shelly but now she is loved by another man.

Shelly and I met back in those days when my hair was full and I was still the smiling kind of a man. I was the kind of a man that was going places. I was the kind of a man who inspired other men to be the kind of men that they hoped to one day become.

But the years have gone by and nothing is the same any longer.

The last I heard, she was living with some rich Baptist banker in some stylish new-money suburb right on the outskirt of Austin, Texas.

Shelly had a clear agenda since she was a teenage girl. She wanted nothing to do with our parts. I could not really ever blame her for it.

Her Daddy was a drunk and her mother was not one to say no to any man who paid her any fraction of attention.

Shelly always knew that she would get out of town just as soon as she would meet the right man. She wanted to live the kind of life she always read about in those shiny magazines.

Shelly once thought that I was that kind of a right man. She hoped that I would be the one to get her out of this life that she was living. She did not enjoy working as a waitress down at Bill’s diner down on Irwin Street. A lady’s hands, she always said, should be gentle and soft.

Back in those days, I worked as the senior consultant to our district’s congressman. When I woke up in the mornings, I would put on my pressed kaki slacks and that old crimson tie. While I brewed up that fresh pot of coffee, she would carefully iron my white button down shirt with that old Suzy Home Maker smile.

Back in those days, people mistook me for an honorable man, the kind of a man that was going places. My hair was thick and well brushed to the side. I never missed Sunday service at the local Methodist church.

Walking out hand in hand, looking as clean cut as American bacon, we looked the part and for a while even fell for it ourselves.

Shelly had big plans for our future. For my future is what she really had in mind. I was to work hard and climb up the ladder. I was to keep a smile on my face and my mouth shut.

Just as soon as old man Johnson would finish out his fourth consecutive term, would serve as the perfect timing for us to take that next step, where she would be the perfect little wife for the honorable congressman from Odessa, Texas.

God Bless that woman’s heart.

But Shelly soon found out the hard way that that old eastern saying holds truth regardless of geography:

“God laughs while man makes plans”

Or at least that’s what Father Swanson told me on that Sunday afternoon after that whole fiasco blew up in my face.

The first thing that Shelly did when she found out was slap me across the face.

The second thing that Shelly did when she found out was to once again slap me across the face but only this time, in the opposite direction.

I did not even try to explain. The only thing she ever cared about was that long term agenda. She never really bothered to ask about my dreams. To her they served no utility. And were not, as she said “Something an adult should ever think about…”

The last I heard, Shelly was living in a large estate that was fully paid for in cash. She has two ladies from Honduras who chased after her rotten children whole she would waste her hours down at the old hair salon.

But was I really someone who could judge another?

When Congressman Johnson first found out about his eighteen year old daughter and I, he kicked me right in the ass with the promise that I would never find work around these parts just as long as he had a single breath in his lungs.

My political career over and my hair mostly gone, I found my happiness within the comforts of this small bar.

Serving bottles of Shiner beer to the locals and fancy Scotch over ice to men in three piece suites, I came to accept the way things turned out without wondering what could have been.

Once in a while, someone may recognize me and say “Hey, aren’t you that guy who I used to know back in the day….”

When that happens, I just smile and nod my head. After all, you know what they say:

“Man makes plans and God just laughs” Aint that always the way that things turn out in life?

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The Trouble with Gemini men

Every year, regardless of what city I may find myself in or the guy who lays next to me, it always appears to be the same story. Men are at their worst when it comes to their birthdays.

How often do they misconstrue this insignificant date to make it appear as if it was their crowing moment? For that one special date, they feel as if they ought to take their place amongst the ancient Greek gods, while their women at their feet.

As a general rule, men are mere children. They do not know what they want and more than often they simply change their minds depending on the time of the day. Most men do not know how to communicate how they feel. They do not understand what it is that can drive a woman insane. Men are the exact reason why women develop wrinkles and have to inject themselves with poisonous Botox.

Men are generally bad, but none are worst than a Gemini.

I am not one to believe in Astrology, zodiac charts, moon and sun signs. I was never one to believe in any of this bullshit. That is, until I met my Gemini man.

If you do not believe me, you can simply open up any book in the store. You do not even have to buy it. Just pick yourself a corner, somewhere comfortable in the store and read all about this complicated air sign.

“Beware of the charming Gemini man,” It will read “He will bring wind into the desert and life into the grave yard. And then, just as soon as the party has begun and you once again find your long lost enthusiasm and hope for a better day, he will walk out of your life in search of the next best thing.”

“The Gemini man,” It will read “loves nothing more than his freedom. As the great communicator he will trap you within his web of charm only to thief your heart and ransack your body.” Ain’t that the truth?

“The Gemini man is not as interested in sex as in conquest. His friendly mannerism and childish smile may fool you into giving up your defenses, but do not be so quick to do so. For beneath his allure hides a cold hearted conquest to control earth’s winds regardless of their direction.”

“The Gemini man,” It will read “Says not what he means and does not mean what he says. He simply says for the sake of his own entertainment. In his world all is temporary and on to the next conquest”

At the bottom of the page, you may just find, compatibility chats. The Gemini man goes well with the Aquarius woman, the balanced Libra may balance him, the Gemini woman can run with him and without him just as well.

And if you are a Virgo woman, he will break your heart. He never was deep enough to understand the secret of your heart.

Today is the birthday of my Gemini man. There he sleeps in the warm bed smiling peacefully in anticipation of another day. Just as soon as he will wake up, his birthday will begin and I will do my best to make it a memorable one.

But the problem with these God damn Geminis is that they will not let you out due them regardless of the feat. Give him head and he will out due you by staying down there until you get the most amazing multiple orgasm that you ever experienced. Cook his a five-course meal and he will surprise you with a chocolate fudge brownie that he bought all the way from that specialty store in the upper east side.

Last year after I did my best to make it the most special night of his life he simply smiled and then gently whispered “I love you” into my ear.

God Damn those Gemini men.

A week has gone by and with it so did my Gemini man.

“It has nothing to do with you” that’s what they would likely write in that book of Zodiac “He simply is not designed for a long term relationship,. For the Gemini man freedom is the ultimate goal. He mistakes commitment for a spiritual prison cell.”

Every year, regardless of what city I may find myself in or the guy who lays next to me, it always appears to be the same story. The early days of September are the most lonely days of them all. As the years go by, I try and forget about them at all.

When my birthday will come around in September, I will not open up my email account. I will not check the post office box or answer my telephone.

“Somebody has a birthday this morning” He would likely say and I would slowly wake out of my tired bed with a frown.

“I made you something special for your special day.” He would say and I would pretend that I am love with him despite the truth in my heart.

God damn these Aries man. They never take no for an answer.

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Barbara The Bar Keeper: a Milf’s diet for happy living.

Barbara stuck around the bar area later than usual. She had no intentions other than to help Lou close up after a long day. There was nothing special about that night. Just another simple night in another simple town in the middle of a boring state whose corn fields stretched for miles around. Barbara was born in the same delivery room where both her daughter and newest grandchild came into the world. Around these parts, people knew one another not only by their first names but also by their heartbreaks.

Big Louis’ has become a staple of the town over the years. Generation after generation of local drunks and bitter divorcees would often congregate around the oak wood counter that had more stories to tell than any modern day dramatist.

Time was getting late as the night matured. The cold wind of darkness signaled that winter was approaching sooner than expected. By now, her only daughter must have fallen asleep across from the old television set where she and her accidental son would spend their nights watching old cartoon shows to pass the time.

While Lou went into the back office to finish up the paperwork from another plentiful night, Barbara was doing her best to serve the last remaining drinkers while cleaning up for the night. There were a few customers hanging around the place despite the late hour. Those same old faces that Barbara has seen for so many years. By now they all appeared exactly the same to her, beaten in their loneliness.

Jack sat all by himself at the edge of the bar. Neither the cowboy hat nor the cigarette smoke that surrounded him could disguise his tender age. While most regulars sat around and engaged in the typical conversation about college football, getting laid or whatever it was that men chose to speak about, Jack would typically keep to himself. He seemed like the quiet type.

Twenty minutes after last call and Lou was getting ready to leave. By now most customers have gone home, all with the exception of an elderly couple, a businessman who was driving through town and Jack who was writing down notes in his journal as he often did. Doing his best to avoid his empty hotel room, the stranger kept the conversation going.

“So what does a man do around this town at such a late hour? You’ll have any other bars that stay up later? God darn it darling, do you mind getting me one last drink?”

“Sorry hon., I am way past last call. Time for this little ole lady to call it a night, it is time for me to go home to my baby girl.”

“Well, than, can this southern gent offer the little ole lady a ride home?” He offered.

“No need sweaty, I got my own set of wheels.”

“Well in that case, there ain’t no good reason for this good ole boy to stick around this dump. Why don’t I just leave you here to be with little author boy sitting there all pretty in the corner taking notes down in his faggy journal and thinking he is better than the rest of us drunks.”

Jack let out a careful smile and in his silent way used his fingers to let Billy Bob know that he best take a flying fuck before getting his redneck ass beaten by youth.

But Barbie had it all under control. “You take it easy now Mister, aint no need to get to fighting”.

Now it was just the two of them. How many times did she imagine this scenario during those bracing winter nights when she would lay in bed all by herself with her fingers so soft upon her skin?

“You want a drink Jack?”

“No thank Barbara, I am good.”

“You can call me Barbie sweaty, that is what all of my friends call me.” She smiled.

Jack slowly and unapologetically surveyed her body from the other side of the bar. Her, in her early fifties and him a mere pup. His body chiseled and foolish, hers saggy and experienced. That of course with the exception of those two large sized cups that no men regardless of age could ever keep his eyes from. True, she had to go to the doctors several times for maintenance. Most men simply have clue of how much work these babies demand from a lady, but hey, they were totally worth it, best $2,000 her ex-husband ever spent on her.

After they made love on the bar counter, Jack went out for a cigarette while she laid there blissful in her state of undress. Gosh, she thought to herself, no one screwed me like that in years.

As she invasively read through the secret pages of his journal, she came upon short passages of ordinary tales, lines of poetry and random thoughts.

How surprised was she as she came across that poem that was dated with today’s date and entitled Barbara The Bar Keeper: a Milf’s diet for happy living.

How curious it was, she thought to herself that one moment of living can even for a moment erase the heavy burden of past years.

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A Man With A Tattoo Of A Man

The thing that I like most about the bar is the fact that it is my bar. I am in no way an owner, a proprietor or a manager of any sorts. Rather, I just feel a sense of belonging on account of the amount of weekly dollars that I spend in the joint. I have been drinking in this place for way too long but hard habits are hard to break.

There is nothing special about this bar, I must acknowledge. Its floors are sticky, its chairs are not comfortable and its bathrooms are beneath all imaginable standards as aged urine serves as a never changing highly uninspired potpourri that would drive any Virgo woman to absolute psychosis.

I first came across this bar when I was a bit younger. It must have been back in my twenties. Back then my hair was longer, my mind still optimistic. Those days are long gone and so is the majority of my hair. This may have something to do with Maria and the years that followed but guilt is the subject of another day.

But this bar, it is still here and I am still in it. Drinking from those same old glasses that are scarcely washed in that unsanitary pool of rusty waters and inexpensive liquid soap. I have grown accustomed to sitting around with those same old people whose familiar bitter faces have grown into familiar furniture. I pass the time by listening to those same old stories that they often tell. I could not ask for anything more.

The women who come in to this place are perfectly loose and their morals largely absent. Any of them will roll around with any stranger who paid modest attentions to their exhausted tales or opened up his wallet for watered-down vodka disguised as something that healthier women would drink in a better place

Chicago Charlie always works the afternoon shift on Wednesdays. He is a descent bar tender who usually throws in an extra shot for us old timers who have been coming around this place for way too many years. Unlike Pam who typically works during the weekend, Charlie substitutes words with non-verbal communication. Great bar keeps realize that most of us all timers are not there to listen to their troubles but rather forget our own.

Since it was Wednesday and since Lizzy was not around, I ordered myself a double down bourbon on the rocks. I am not the kind of a guy who has a favorite drink. For me, it is all about a schedule.

On the odd days, I drink beers. On the even days I liquor it up. On the weekends it is purely random. I usually order whatever they have on special. I order a double bourbon on the rocks.

Then she approached me as if she did not remember who I was.

“Heya guy, want to buy a lady a drink?”

I offered her some water.

She told me to go fuck myself and walked on over to the other side of the bar where she found a properly dressed college kid with an open tab who was more than happy to oblige.

Jamie is a regular just like the rest of us. She has a gorgeous set of tits and a face that was clearly devastate by her extreme alcoholism and the heartbreak of a plan that did not pan out like it was suppose to.

Just like the rest of us, she could have been something completely different if she only made better decisions, if she surrounded herself with better company, if she only stayed away from the bar.

But like the rest of us, she didn’t and that was exactly why she is here with all of us old- timers.

The dilapidated jukebox is playing those familiar songs of Robert Johnson as it helps pass the time. Kind Hearted Woman Blues reminds me of the time I once spent out in Mississippi.

And now comes a man and sits right next to me. He is much younger than I. He has long hair and a Charles Bukowski tattoo on his left arm. The guy orders a double bourbon on the rocks.

“Great minds….” I tell him.

“Great mind what?” He asks.

“Great minds drink a double bourbon on the rocks. Great minds read books by Charles Bukowski minus his poetry.”

He smiles and waves his dismissing hand in my direction. “Hank Bukowski is the greatest motherfucking poet of all times. What do you know about it?”

I know nothing about it nor do I care. I once read Ham on Rye. It was not half bad. A woman bought me the book many years and told me that I just had to read it. And so I did.

“So what makes a man tattoo the name of another man on his hand?” I inquire.

“Call it appreciation of a far more talented individual than you can ever hope to become.”

I order another round and just smile while I am enjoying my time. From 4 Until Late is playing in the background and it all makes perfect sense to me, to the people have been coming here for years and to the old walls of this small bar that we all love so much.

It likely makes none to any of my readers but that was never the point of the story. I just want them all take a look around this place.

The guy next to me asks me to watch his drink while he takes a piss. For a moment I think about sipping it all down but he is all right despite it all.

Still, I would never consider tattooing a man’s name or image on any part of my body.
It is hard enough to commit to a woman so why bother with a man.

Jamie is all liquored up on the other side of the bar and it looks like she is ready to go. I know that I can do much better if I only made an effort but she is the best that is around.

She smiles in my direction and we head out towards Vernon’s Bar. I grab the drink of the guy while he takes a piss and walk out to the cold wind of the familiar parking lot.

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Books For The Beach

ATLANTIC CITY (May 3, 2008) 2008 BEACH BOOK FESTIVAL WINNERS announced. Hard-Boiled Men by Guy Jacobs wins the second place prize in the general fiction category. Jacobs’ hilarious account of single life in New York City won praise from readers and critics alike.

Smart, raw and tight"
-Page One Reviews

Hard-Boiled Men is fun and thought-provoking, It reminded me of a modern day Portnoy’s Complaint"
- The Compulsive Reader

'Powerful, inspiring and heartfelt. Hard-Boiled Men is The Catcher in the Rye all grown up"
-Dr. Paul S. Lieber, Emerson College

"This novel will leave you completely entertained and satisfied"
-Sherri A. Marchese

Other recent awards won by Guy Jacobs include:
2007 New York Book Festival Award
2007 Hollywood Book Festival Award

So what are you waiting for? Get your copy of Guy Jacobs’ novel Hard-Boiled Men on Amazon, BN.com or get an autographed copy at:

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Cleanup on AIsle 10

For Herald, things seemed rather ordinary for a Wednesday afternoon. Walking through the supermarket aisles, he noticed the perfectly stacked containers of breakfast treats and one hundred calorie snack packs.

But these were not simple rows of consumerism and daily specials highlighted in large print. The super market was his gateway to discovery. It was his suburban version of the kind of life that he always read about in those adventure magazines. It was the kind of life that he never dared to pursue in the name of being pragmatic and those Gods of socially acceptable norms.

His worthy vehicle was no four by four jeep that could break through rough terrains and climb over steep topography, rather, it was a shiny super market cart whose front left wheel was tilted in the wrong direction.

Herald did not mind the daily task of grocery shopping. There was so much to be discovered as he passed through the familiar rows. On aisle Nine there was a special on frozen hamburger meat, only $4.99 per lbs. The old lady in aisle four offered free samples of micro waved pizza that tasted like ketchup dough topped off by gummy imitation Mozzarella cheese. Herald waited in line with the rest of them and when the pizza was finally ready he received a perfectly squared piece that fitted well into the tiny plastic cup.

Herald swallowed the pizza bite without chewing, one could say that he drank the pizza or rather inhaled it. When he asked the old lady for another piece she declined on account of the store policy that every costumer only gets one sample.

Herald was not the kind of a man who knew how to handle adversity. Like so many others, he chose to walk away in silence with that lingering feeling of being mistreated by the world. Life is not always fair, he reminded himself as he walked towards the fruit section where he noticed her standing there in between the ripe cherry tomatoes and those mountains of yellow and green bananas that were on store special, only two dollars per pound.

Her name was Dee. Doris if you wanted to get technical. Doris M. Pupnik if you wanted to be precise. Doris worked at the local video rental store. She had long brown hair that curled at its bottoms. Her skin was fair and her smile was reassuring.

Herald frequented the shop where she worked. He loved the old classic movies from the 1950’s, that time in America when things were more simple and people could be trusted.

In the 1950’s he always told her, people could depend on their friends and neighbors. Back in those days, people left their doors unlocked at night and allowed their children to run free through the neighborhood streets. Doris was not the kind of a woman to engage in those kinds of philosophical discussions. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she was born in September, Damn Virgos are always so practical, he thought to himself.

Dee was a southerner who held on to that southern charm. She always listened in an attentive manner and wished Herald a great day as he walked out of store.

Herald grew hesitant as he approached her. This was the very first time that they ran into each other on neutral grounds. This was the first time that he saw he legs. Come to think about it, he never even knew she had legs before. She always stood behind that rental store counter.

But there she was, in all of her flesh and glory. Herald smiled, approached and then ran scared. He simply freaked, he changed his mind, he could not handle the opportunity, he knew not what to say.

But it was too late. she already spotted him as he turned around.

“Herald, is that you?” she smiled.
“Yea, it is me, how are you Dee?”
“I am ok, how are you?”
“Pretty much the same”

Following some meaningless small talk about the rising price of vegetables, the merits of organic foods and some exotic recipes that she offered him for cooking tofu, Herald and Dee walked slowly together towards aisle ten. That was the place where the supermarket proudly displayed their DVD collection. From oldies to new releases, from such classics as Gone With the Wind to the latest Disney animation flick, this place had it all.

Herald felt the need to prove his sense of loyalty to Dee. He positively reassured her that he would never switch over to the supermarket rentals despite the attractive prices that they offered and their flexible return schedule.

“What about you Dee?” He wanted to know. “What kind of movies do you like to watch?”

“I actually don’t watch too much television or waste my time with movies” she confessed. “I find most of it to be beneath me. If you really want to know what I think, then I can tell you that most people who spend their lives in front of the television ultimately become mindless bores who have no true concept of the world. I would much rather read a novel, go hiking or have an occasional roll in the sack with a good looking man.”

Herald was the kind of a man who wore his feelings on his sleeve. In the case of Dee, he wore disappointment. How he ever mistook her for someone who could understood his heart, he would never know. Running away like a frightened child, he knocked over a couple of Coca-Cola bottles that went on special, only $3.99 for a six pack.

Leaving her, his groceries and his shiny metal cart behind, Herald stormed out of the supermarket and into that same blue Chevrolet that he has been driving for the past seven years.

She just stood there in silence. What the hell was the problem with these men? she thought. This of course was not the first time she tackled this ageless question to no avail.

The voice of a young Hispanic female rang “Cleanup on aisle ten” across the loud sound system.

Dee saw a woman around her age waking hand and hand with her three year old son. The boy smiled at the woman and simply said "I love you Mama"

It was getting late already. Dee would turn 36 in just a few months and had nothing to show for it.

A teenage boy holding on to a mop cornered off the area with those bright yellow cones that simply read “Caution slippery when wet.”

Dee had no place to go. She did not feel like eating another one of those frozen single serving meals.

After a supersized hamburger, French fries and a diet coke, she walked over to her new Toyota that she got on lease. The scent of new leather was still in the air but that did not make things any better for her.

It was getting late already, she thought, time for her to go home.

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The American Writer by Bukowski

gone abroad
I sit under the tv lights
and am interviewed again
I am asked questions
I give answers
I make no attempt to be
brilliant.
to be truthful
I feel bored
and I almost never feel
bored.
"do you?..." they ask.
"oh, yeah, well I..."
"and what do you think of..."
"I don't think of it much. I
don't think too much..."
somehow it ends.

that evening somebody tells me
I'm on the news
we turn the set on.
there I am. I look pissed.
I wave people off.
I am bored.

how marvelous to be me without
trying.
it looks on tv
as if I knew exactly what I
was doing.

fooled them
again.

from Dangling In The Tournefortia - 1981
Charles Bukowski

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A special place in hell for women

That morning, like most others, was just another ordinary day that offered limited consequence laced with the morning fragrance of routine. She watched the dials of the old wooden clock shift slowly towards west with the partial enthusiasm of another day to come
.
Her hair was long and brown. It required a level of attention that she could not commit to.

Thank God, she thought to herself, that she never adopted that cat that Marcie offered her. Mr. buttercup may have helped cope with loneliness but he would more likely drive her insane. She did not want to turn into one of those single women who lived with cats. She always thought that letting a cat move in was the last step before accepting life’s lonely trail. But at least, cats did not demand as much work as did people.

Men were the most difficult to deal with, she always thought.

Thank God she never agreed to let John move in with her. He would have likely required even more work than would Mr. Buttercup. John was a stale male. As soon as she had her taste of his limited companionship and that five-inched tickle, she felt just as lonely as she did before he came into her life.

She thought about her birthday. June was only two months away. She will turn 38. She felt like 27. Time was always missing. It was a rare commodity in her life. She decided not to think about it. Repression proved to be a useful technique as the years went by.

The long line of people who were standing in line for a morning cup of coffee did not make things any better for her. She stood behind a homeless man who smelled of misery and collective apathy. His kaki jacket was torn at the shoulder. His hair seemed as confused as the rest of it all.

He walked up to the young lady at the counter and asked her for a cup of coffee and for a cup filled with iced water. When she refused to accept his money on account of her being a born again Christian and all, he dropped two single dollar bills into her tip jar.

God bless you and the rest of America, he whispered as he walked away with his distinct pride.

Now it was her turn. Sabrina stood in front of the young Christian girl where she found herself empty of speech.

What can I get you today? She asked.

Sabrina stayed silent.

The Christian girl tried once again, Good morning, Mam, what can I get for you today?

Sabrina remained silent.

Two Wall Street secretaries were standing impatient in the back of the line. They both wore similar cloths, similar shoes and similar hairstyles. Beneath their socially acceptable appearances, they both held on to those same fears that drove so many people into the world of banking-.the fear of being alone in the world.

Hey lady, one of them bolstered, some of us have jobs to get to this morning, can you please hurry it up already?

Sabrina said nothing. She ignored their rudeness as she placed her eyes on the shiny crucifix that hung from the coffee shop employee’s necklace.

Following a third attempt, the young Christian girl just smiled and turned towards the large coffee percolator. She returned with a warm cup of coffee and a reassuring smile.

Here you go honey, no charge.

Sabrina dropped a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar and walked away feeling better about the world.

There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women, said the homeless man who was standing outside. I could be wrong, but I think that the quote came from former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright.

Sabrina smiled and nodded her head in agreement. She took the old black book out of her crowded purse and disappeared into the hopeful streets of the East Village.

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