The C**t Chronicles: A Tale Of Triumph And Tragedy

“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 their 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 that 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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