“I’m gonna start working on my novel soon. It is called The





C**t Chronicles: A Tale of Triumph and Tragedy. It’s







basically written. I have it all figured out in my head, I just







gotta write it down,” Chris says in his usual casual manner.







We are sitting in Bryant Park not doing anything, really.





Chris is giving his expert insights on every female being that







happens to stumble into his field of vision, while I zone in







and out of his rumblings. “Look at those three! Not bad, not







bad. I would f**k the old one up the a*s while I chew on the







younger one’s p***y. And her, I would just finger to keep







her warm till I finish with the older chick and then give her







a good romping, too.” A pretty, middle-aged mum with her







two teenage daughters pass us by.











I’m growing very weary of Chris’s social commentary, and







I’m seriously wondering why I’m hanging out with him in the







first place. We had a few interesting conversations about







art and the world while he was staying at the hostel, but







our discussions have steadily deteriorated since then. And







now that he has found an apartment of his own in Queens,







he is more desperate for company than ever. Calling me up







at all hours of the day,which is facilitated by the fact that







he doesn’t have a job. He says he is an artist but doesn’t







know in which specific direction yet. Rich parents!











“Ooh, ooh, look at that one. A feisty little thing. Oh, man,







what I would do to her.” I see a woman, probably in her







mid-twenties, wearing a long, black flowing dress that







covers her body from neck to toe, a white headscarf







that apparently shields her hair from ever horny eyes, and







round, nerdy eyeglasses. There is literally not much to see.







I glance up at Chris to find out if we are looking at the same







person. Sure enough, he is staring right at her, fishing for







eye contact. The girl self-consciously looks up, and Chris







displays a genuine-looking sweet smile. “Good afternoon,







pretty lady.” The girl is shocked, and in her confusion







mumbles out a flattered “good afternoon” before hurrying







off. Chris gives me a knowing look. I chuckle to let him







know I’m in on the joke. He doesn’t laugh back. He is



focused and absolutely serious. “That is good stuff!” he







says, smacking his lips. “Have you ever had one of those?” I







shake my head very slowly. “You are missing out, man; they







are the world’s best-kept secret. Seriously, dude, those







chicks are nasty.” I do not respond to this, allowing the







words to hang out there for a while untouched.











“It’s real simple; b*****s are gonna be b*****s, man, no







matter what rags you throw on them. Deep down, they are







still gonna crave a thick, juicy c**k in between their legs,







man; nothing’s gonna stop that.” He leans in closer to me







and lowers his voice. “I’m an a*s man, bro, you know that !







Which is a perfect situation for these s***s because they are







not allowed to have sex. Seriously, dude, one of them told







me that her parents frequently check if she is still a virgin.







Can you imagine that? Your dad sticking his old, crusty







fingers into your vagina every Sunday to see if you’ve been







a good girl?” I shake my head. “That’s insane, bro, that’s







insane. They say they do it because of Allah and so on, but I







don’t get that, man. I don’t get that. But, hey, to each his







own, I say. So"my point was that this girl I picked up told me







that we couldn’t have normal sex cause that right was







reserved for her future husband. But...” he raises his index







finger, “we could have anal if I wanted to. Ching-ching!







Can you believe that s**t? That’s amazing, right? And







believe me, those girls are wild; they let you do anything







because they feel bad for not allowing you to have proper







sex with them. They give the meanest blowjobs ever, and







their a******s are super tight. And, yes, you might







occasionally hit on a couple of nuggets while you’re







ploughing around up there, but hey, that’s just how the







game goes, man. S**t happens!” He laughs proudly at his







own wit. “It’s not a big deal.”











Somehow through this monologue, I’ve found a new form of







respect for Chris. He doesn’t bother himself with creating







and following any conceivable morals, and he takes a







healthy amount of pride in that fact. There is something







admirable about someone being this comfortable with







his fucked-up self and the broken world around him. “The







only thing you gotta watch out for is that you don’t get







caught by thei r family members.











Those fuckers are crazy, and once they get all psyched up







with their Koran and what not, there’s no stopping them;







trust me tha t never ends well. Especially for her, but also







for you.” I’ve almost no doubt in my mind that what he is







saying stems from personal experience. He doesn’t have







the mental capacity to come up with such a thing, and he







is, objectively speaking, good looking. I’ve seen how girls







respond to his tired lines.











There is definitely something to what he says. Those







covered-up girls do leave more to the imagination, I







suppose. And imagination is an indefeasible force. It colors







and molds everything to perfection, making it hard for







reality to compete with. Hmm, Chris might be an artist,





after all...









The End











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