Home is where the beer, whores and friends are

Home. Wherever that was anymore, I didn’t fit. To my family, I drank too much, cursed and slept around with whomever. To my friends, it was the same, except they were drinking just as much (only a few slept around as much as I did, but they at least knew how to ensure the entire town didn’t find out about it the next day). I was like this when I left that dead town, New Kensington, not too many people acknowledged it though. Clinten did. He was there the night we were all drinking one woman’s garage as I sat there, four females lined up in front of me. All wanting to know who the best kisser was. Sure there were two other guys with me, but with some stroke of Luck, I had become the expert of the group.

And he was the one to drive me and two other females all off to our respective homes. First dropping off Lauren, making out with her in the back yard, trying to find a spot where she could blow me and not have to worry about her father. After being interrupted by Clinten’s car horn (he can be a dick like that and so am I. It keeps the friendship going), we were at Tina’s house fooling around on her computer when her and I decided to start fooling around. Clinten left in disgust, throwing me a condom and I fucked her good that night.

Something happened after Danielle and I broke up. These women finally started showing me that I had something to offer them, something they wanted for quite some time. All I had to do was be there and smile.

The years started going by and women left my bedroom at higher rates and I ran around with an air of arrogance, entitlement, and who wouldn’t? For the most part, especially my years in Germany, I was getting consistently laid by women who, for the most part, were amazing, and if they lacked looks they made up for it with either their oral skills or freakiness level in bed (or bar bathroom, restaurant parking lot, club dance floor, just to name a few). Back home, everyone else thought I was an asshole, but it didn’t stop women from spreading their legs so it didn’t stop me.

Now, five years later and one hell of a vacation over Christmas were pulling pussy was more like deciding which apples to buy at a supermarket than some sort of exciting chase, I’m bored with it all. My cousin is happy that I have hung up my manwhore shoes, but she knows that I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the fall so I will be home, and people will hear the scary tale of future war and combat, the possibility of death and again, those legs will spread, and I will glide my cock in yet again. It’s what I know, and it seems that is all I got.

I’m sure there will be a few back there, telling me I am too old for this shit. Last time I checked, I’m twenty three. They act as though they don’t understand me, but I plainly don’t understand them. When we were young and didn’t comprehend how big the world was, everyone would shout there head “WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN! WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN!” Then people attempt college, have a kid or two or three, marry, and they believe they have grown up. Matured.

HA!

Home. Maybe they’re right though. Being in the army gives you a few grievances and people tend to let you slide, BUT I’m coming home for good. The “I was in a war, goddammit” card will only go so far until I finally use it all up, and then what? Do I settle down, start furthering my education? What about all those young girls of eighteen walking around the campus, their eyes filled with hope and wanting to experience everything they can, everything their mothers and fathers did and are now afraid of? Who will please them?

Do I get a steady job that pays a decent as a war vet could hope for? Date? I tried dating over Christmas, it scared the hell out of me. Too many whores and bar flies and military town sluts have caused me to forget what even a date is even supposed to be like. Plus, over the years I have come to hate people. It’s all rudimentary to what will happen down the road (either a few good fucks or a serious relationship) and worst of all it requires a lot of small talk which will only force me to put a gun in my mouth.

Do I try to work it out with my ex, the woman I truly love? My stomach is to torn up right now to even deal with that. Actually excuse me a moment while I go and puke.




Ah, so where was I? yes yes So what will I do?

I will get a small apartment, with a small room and small desk. Sitting in there; my laptop, my typewriter, my ashtray and my fridge, stocked with beer and whiskey, and I will get drunk. Writing and typing and screwing. Screwing who? Those sweet young eighteen year old girls who traveled one of the three rivers to make it as a biologist or lawyer or accountant or, god forbid a writer.

Change my ways. Try to be with my love. Mature. The catch phrase seems to be, “Leave it up to fate.” No one wants to make any decisions, take any responsibility and that is all I need. My conscience is clear. I’m already expecting to lose it all and just be another drunk in a crummy apartment talking about the days when I was young so why try? I can’t control this shit, I know what I want and will take it if available. If not, well, damn.

Still, I will be close to the family and they do love me. I will be close to friends and they still put up with me. I will be close to alcohol and that never let me down. New Kensington. Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania. Home. Maybe it’s not as scary as I make it seem. Maybe that’s just the 3 a.m. beer talking.