Jerkoff

Table of Contents

Jerkoff

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This book is dedicated to Dan Fante, who not only ferried me back from the dark side, but is also living proof that hack writers like me can get published! Cheers Fante, thanks for the ride. Love you man!

P.S. Keep Typing!

Dear God...I’m inviting you on this journey...I’m opening up the passenger side door and asking you to hop in and come with me and stay with me across each and every page. God I get it now—like I never have before—that I need you. I need you God, by my side, for each and every conscious moment of every day and every hour and every minute and every second of my life from here on out for as long as I shall live. And P.S. God, on behalf of all my brothers and sisters here on Planet Earth, sorry for fucking up this beautiful, beautiful world you have given us. –Jerkoff

I bought a Springfield Armory 9mm handgun online. It wasn’t very difficult at all. I had to pass a background check, take a gun-safety quiz that any imbecile could pass, and solemnly swear not to rob a bank or shoot my neighbor.

After that, all that was left was picking it up at a licensed gun dealer, which in LA wasn’t very hard to find at all. I’d never owned a gun before, didn’t even know how to load it or shoot it either. But through the wonders of the internet I figured all that out.

And honestly, it broke my heart to think that I was gonna do it. I mean, I’ve got a three-year old daughter who I adore and she’s gonna have to go through life without ever knowing me because of this. Yet, here I am, with this gun hidden away in the very back of the highest shelf of the hallway closet.

As far as my daughter, Genevieve, I just told myself that she’d be ok. I mean Cliff, my ex-wife Julia’s husband, is a really great guy. He absolutely loves Genevieve and he has two kids of his own, and they love Genevieve too, so they’re all one big happy family and Genevieve will be calling Cliff daddy in no time.

And the thing is I knew that was total bullshit. But I had to sign off on it. I had to suffocate all remnants of reality in order to coexist with this monster that had pulled up a chair in the living room of my mind. And let me tell you man, it was really hard to do. I mean it was eating me alive because part of me knew how unbelievably selfish and childish and cowardly I was behaving. I mean I’m gonna murder this girl who loved me and gave me her heart mind body and soul and then left me when I threw her out at five in the morning because she wouldn’t have sex with me.

That’s what you do when your woman wants to sleep; you throw her out in the freezing cold in the pre-dawn hours of the morning? Nice, Jerkoff! And then when you call her a few days later, after you think she’s cooled off, and she doesn’t answer all your sweet and loving I’m sorry texts and voice mails, you send her a text telling her what a cheap little whore she is and when that doesn’t work you send her another salvo of I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it texts and voicemails and when she doesn’t answer those you drop an atom bomb on her life that is so destructive and so devastating and so cruel that she becomes absolutely terrified of you.

And the guilt and the shame that you feel in the face of this singular act of wickedness is so overwhelming that there is no way you can tell anyone and this terrible, terrible secret begins to fester in your soul, and the waves of regret and remorse and longing and hopelessness and despair come crashing onto the shores of your mind through every waking moment of your day and they follow you into your sleep at night, and your dreams are nightmares from the moment you fall asleep until you wake. And it’s hell, pure unadulterated hell, and thoughts of murder and suicide creep in to your mind to offer their assistance.

And my hurt pride and ego are fueling this runaway train that I just can’t stop careening down the tracks and I try to rationalize and I try this and I try that, but nothing’s working, I’m driving by her place several times a day, trying to figure out if she’s with someone or not, because in my twisted mind, if she isn’t—if she’s still single, there’s hope.

2.

The holidays heighten loneliness. Everyone knows that. And it’s Christmas and Genevieve is with Julia and Cliff doing the family thing and I’m feeling totally sorry for myself because nobody loves me, it’s Christmas and I’m home jerking off to porn, just trying to stay numb.

And yeah my buddy Tom, who is just this super-happy, always content, loves his wife, loves his kids, loves his job, loves his life guy, invited me over for his annual Christmas bash and what the hell, maybe there will be some chicks, maybe I’m supposed to go because the girl I’m supposed to meet that’s gonna tow me out of this homicidal-suicidal obsession I’m parked in is gonna be there.

So I pull myself off the internet, and even take a shower before heading over. And once inside, the spirit of non-homicidal-suicidal Christmas revelers takes hold, and there’s this real pretty, real skinny girl—just like I like ’em—standing in the doorway talking to some elderly gentleman, and I can’t peel my eyes off her cause I’ve spent the last four or five hours looking at porn which, in case ya don’t know, kinda has an effect on you when you go out into the real world. And her women’s intuition has to be telling her that this guy is really ogling her and it’s gotta be creeping her out, right?

Hey, I’m Jerkoff.

Alice, she answers calmly and extends her hand.

Ya see to a guy as sick and as twisted and as desperate as me, a woman acknowledging me and actually going so far as to tell me her name and extend her hand is like...wedding bells!

And my hopes are soaring now because we’re having a conversation. And she’s only 5’2 and I’m 6’2 and I ain’t a bad looking guy and she’s looking up at me as we talk and I think she’s admiring me and it comes out that me and Tom have been friends for years and that scores big points with her because she’s Tom’s sister!! And that news feeds the conversation and Tom is within earshot and I say, Tom, I didn’t even know you had a sister.

Yep, I sure do, he answers merrily.

So now me and Alice are talking about the LA Kings and about how she loves going to their games, and I’m thinking that’s an invitation.

I love the Kings, I tell her even though I’ve never been to a hockey game in my life, wanna go to a game?

Oh I can’t, she answers, I have a boyfriend.

You fucking little bitch, I want to tell her, you totally led me on....but instead I manage to say, Oh. I understand politely.

No point in continuing this conversation. An awkward moment or two passed before I feigned getting a call on my cell phone.

Leaving already, Tom calls to me as I head for the door.

Yeah man, I’ve got a million places to get to tonight.

Well, don’t be a stranger, he says as I wave goodbye and step back out into the cold, lonely night.

3.

I was furious at God for not hearing my prayers, furious at Alice for leading me on, furious at Tom for being so happy, furious at Jill for kicking me out of her life and furious at myself for captaining my ship to the bottom of the sea.

The loneliness was staggering. So off I went to the Scumbag Center—the local AA meeting hall. Ya see I’ve been clean and sober for many years. Alcoholics Anonymous is a big part of my story and a huge part of my life. It’s where I met my ex-wife Julia and it’s where I met Jill, too.

In fact every girl I’ve dated over the past eight years I’ve met in AA. And over the holidays they always have marathon meetings that go from morning until midnight, so I head over thinking I’ll find the girl that’s gonna take me outta the hell I’m in waiting for me there.

And I walk in and there’s Jill, sitting with some rugged-looking, husky, outdoorsy looking guy, who I’ll just call Douchebag. Fortunately for me she didn’t see me and I was able to exit before she did, and now I’m totally shaking with rage and frustration and abandonment and I’m thinking that’s it, this is the night. You had your chance God, you could have saved me—you could’ve saved Jill too. All you had to do was hook me up with some other girl, but not only did you not do that, you waved Alice in my face and then pulled her away from me too. On Christmas night no less...FUCK YOU GOD!

I crossed the street, hid in the darkness outside and waited for the doors of the Scumbag Center to open, wondering if I had enough time to hustle back to my place, which was only five minutes away, and get the gun. But almost instantly the doors opened and the crowd spilled out onto the street. Jill and Douchebag got into his jeep and drove away. I hauled ass to my car and picked up the chase, speeding up and slowing down and breaking twenty traffic laws along the way. I followed them all the way to Swingers in Santa Monica—Jill’s favorite restaurant.

I parked in the Denny’s parking lot across the street and watched them walk hand in hand to the restaurant. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to shoot myself too. That thought occurred to me. Just shoot yourself. Let her have her life. She didn’t do anything wrong. She loved you and you treated her like dog shit and she’d had enough and took care of herself and shit-canned you. And then I thought, call someone. Call someone right now. But there was just no mother loving way I was gonna do that. The train had left the station.

I knew as they disappeared inside the restaurant that it was now or never. I could get home, get the gun and be back in half an hour, more than enough time. So I pulled out of the parking lot, jumped on the 10 and zipped home.

The gun was waiting in the very back of the top shelf, fully loaded. I grabbed it, ran into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet as I held it in my hand. I couldn’t make eye contact with myself in the bathroom mirror. I just kept my head down, stuffed the gun in my coat pocket and dashed back out into the night.

The jeep was still there when I made it back to the Denny’s parking lot. God, the thoughts that crossed my mind. Part of me wanted desperately to call someone, anyone—even the police and just say, look, I’m here in the Denny’s parking lot on Lincoln in Santa Monica and I’ve got a gun and I’m gonna shoot my ex-girlfriend and the guy she’s with, can you please come get me before I do it, and I could just see the SWAT team converging on me and a helicopter overhead and me being pulled out of the car and shoved to the ground and the news vans arriving and the Scumbag Center abuzz with the news: Did you hear about Jerkoff? He was gonna shoot Jill and Douchebag too. I mean he actually had a gun and was waiting outside for them. I saw it on the news!

Then there was the just drive idea. Ya see I’m a stone’s throw to the entrance of the 10 freeway, which is the Christopher Columbus Cross Continental Highway, which means you can take it all the way from California to Florida without ever having to turn the steering wheel. I could start a new life there, a new new life to replace the one I started when I first came here. And I’d be alive and free to get on with my life and Genevieve could come visit me, and maybe I’d meet someone there who would make the pain go away, and maybe that’s why all this was happening.

Maybe this was God’s plan all along to get me out of California and into the new life that awaited me in Florida. Maybe God wasn't such an asshole after all! But just as I thought that, Jill and Douchebag came out of Swingers walking hand in hand. I got out of the car and vomited again as they walked slowly toward his jeep. Call it a miracle but I just couldn't move. I just stood there like a statue and watched them climb back into his jeep and drive away.

They took the 10 back to her place and I was right behind them the whole way. They pulled up in front of her place and I stopped about a half a block down the street and waited for them to get out. But they didn't. WTF?! What’s going on? Do they know I’m behind them? Are the police on the way? I had to find out. I rolled slowly by, and peeked inside the jeep as I passed. Jill was practically in Douchebag’s lap and they were immersed in a passionate French kiss.

I don’t know why I didn’t just get out of the car and do it right there. I kept driving around the block and passed a second time. Nothing had changed. Jill and Douchebag were still lip-locked. I kept circling the block again and again and again peering into the jeep as I passed, countless times, until finally I parked at the burger joint on the corner, and got out of my car.

Just then they got out of the jeep and crossed the street hand in hand toward her building with no idea that I was a few feet behind them with a loaded 9-milimeter.

The moment of truth had arrived.

It was just the way I’d pictured it; her and some guy walking down the street; me appearing, her face turning to stone, the guy not knowing what to make of it. I put one between his eyes, she screams and takes off running. I cut her off, blow her away and then turn the gun on myself. There will never be a more perfect moment. But for some strange reason I stood there like a statue, letting the moment of truth slip away and watching them disappear inside her building.

God how sick I felt knowing that Jill was taking some guy up to her place to fuck his brains out while I sat in my car outside her building all alone, with the gun I’d bought for the specific purpose of killing her now resting on the console beside me. I thought about blowing my brains out right then and there but I knew I couldn't.  Instead, I just drove back home and sat there in the dark wishing I had the balls to blow my head off but knowing in my heart of hearts that I just was not capable of it, and never would be.

And as I sat there in that pitch black and silent abyss I could just see Douchebag on top of Jill, French kissing her, putting his cock in her, and Jill wrapping her slender thighs around his thick body and locking her arms around his neck moaning more...more...more the way she always did when we made love. And I could see Douchebag cumming inside of her and lying beside her and holding her in his arms all through the night as they basked in the bliss of their newfound love.

And with this thought a jealous rage welled up inside me all over again. I jumped up and hurried back over to Jill’s place. Two hours had passed, but Douchebag’s jeep was gone.

WTF?! What a lover you are Douchebag! Two hours and you’re gone? Are you serious? A girl as blazing hot as Jill invites you up to her place and you’re one and done and gone when you could be plowing her all night long?!

And this is how my mind works. This gives me hope, because as pissed as Jill is at me—and rightfully so—I fucked her like she’d never been fucked before. At the risk of sounding egotistical, when it comes to sex, I am a fucking savant!

And I’m thinking, he’s a terrible lay, he got on her, came in two minutes, rolled off her and left. And I KNOW JILL, she’s a motherfucking sex fiend, she’s as hot a lover as she is a looker, which is probably why I’m so completely/totally/permanently addicted to her.

And I want to believe what I’m thinking, but I gotta be sure. After all, maybe they went to his place. Very possible since Jill’s place is so small and her bed is so tiny—I mean it’s one of those kindergartner jobs.

Man, I just had to find out. So I did what I’d done countless times before. I made sure the coast was clear and then darted down the tiny alleyway and climbed the low metal fence underneath her window. Even though her curtains were always drawn there was usually a slight opening that I could peer in through. But tonight the lights were out and I couldn't see a thing.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I did what I’d done once or twice before when the fate of western civilization depended on me determining whether or not she was home. I walked up to her building, rang her bell, ran back down the stairs and hid behind the bushes there—still within earshot of the intercom.

Yes? she answered with a hint of aggravation.

I still wasn't satisfied. That’s the law of obsession. It is forever and always a catacomb of mystery and doubt and unanswered questions that must be answered, but simply never can be.

I mean just because he wasn't there didn't mean he wasn't coming back. Maybe he went to get condoms at 7-Eleven! I had to wait and find out. So I zipped back to my car, circled the block and parked where I could see all car/pedestrian traffic passing by. I waited for four hours, until daylight, for Douchebag to return, but he never did.

4.

I wake up around 11 the next morning. I know there are Christmas marathon meetings in progress at the Scumbag Center, lots of pretty girls, maybe one who can get me out of the hell I am trapped in. I walk in through the rear entrance and there is Jill sitting by herself in the corner of the room looking like something that the cat dragged in. She sees me and quickly looks away. That is her policy. We are strangers, now and forever. I look around the room for Douchebag but there is no sign of him. The men’s room door is closed which obviously means someone is in there. I stand near the coffee bar biding my time, feigning interest in a cup a’ joe, waiting with bated breath to see if Jill’s last-night lover will soon emerge, sit down beside her and take her fragile frame into his thick lumberjack arms.

The toilet flushes...the moment of truth is upon me...the door opens and...Homeless Horace emerges. Homeless Horace, I’ve never in all my life been so happy to see you. Merry Christmas Homeless Horace! Yes, I can spare some change! No I don’t have a cigarette. I don’t smoke, remember? But guess what Homeless Horace? Here’s ten bucks...go buy yourself a pack!

The speaker is really boring. I can’t hear a word she is saying anyway. I just sit there, a few rows away, stealing glances at her, torturing myself. My mind harkens back to the Christmas night when we’d made love underneath the Christmas tree and then went to the Norm’s on Pico and then came back to my place and had sex again and watched A Christmas Carol, (the real old one) while our sex batteries recharged, and then had sex again, and then passed out and then woke up around 5 a.m. and had sex again, and watched A Christmas Carol again while our sex batteries recharged, and then went back to the Norm’s on Pico for breakfast, and then came back to my place and had sex again.

I’m lying on top of her, she’s wrapped around me. I stare into her eyes.

Let’s go to a meeting

"Ok."

We staggered over to the Scumbag Center, the Christmas marathon meetings were in full swing. We sat there arm in arm completely exhausted, completely in love. Everyone took notice: Jerkoff and Jill! That Christmas was the pinnacle of our time together, but somehow I’d managed to turn that brief slice of heaven into this seemingly endless hell.

There I was sitting just thirty feet away from her, but I might as well have been on the other side of the world. I’m sitting there doing the math on this thing, trying to get to the bottom of it and here’s what I figure out: Here she is on the day after Christmas, distraught, all by herself, even though she took some guy up to her place the night before.

I deduce that said guy left so quickly, obviously because he’s a minute man who’s too ashamed to face her because his premature ejaculation problem raised its ugly head again, and yeah, he’s handsome and rugged and athletic looking...BUT...HE....CAN’T....FUCK!!!

And yeah, I did terrible, terrible shit to her, but that was a long time ago and I’ve sent her countless letters telling her how sorry I am and how committed I am to treating her like a queen forever and always in the future. So I text her as she’s sitting there... Hi Jill...I know this really cool vegan restaurant on National and Palms...wanna meet me there...maybe we can talk about starting over...

SEND.

Her phone is on buzz. She looks down at it, reads the text and then looks back up at the speaker without any reaction whatsoever. When the meeting is over, Jill is the first one out the door. Guess the vegan joint is a no-go!

I just couldn’t wait for the holidays to be over. I know I’m not the only one who feels that way. A newfound obsession had taken shape in my mind, and a very dangerous one at that. Ya see Douchebag was driving a black jeep and I’d taken note of the first four digits on his license plate which was 1PME (1 Pre Mature Ejaculator!) And this developing obsession involved looking for his car 24/7. I was constantly rubbernecking to read the license plates of each and every black vehicle that resembled Douchebag’s jeep—and there were thousands of them every day.

Obviously, that can get pretty dangerous because you’re taking your eyes off the traffic immediately in front of you. And even though I realized how high the stakes were; I mean driving is my livelihood; still I still couldn’t stop doing it.

I call Chris, my best friend, and tell him the situation. Dude, what are the chances I’m gonna see Douchebag’s car?

Yeah, and why would you want to? he answers. I mean what are ya gonna do if you find it Jerkoff?

But Chris doesn’t know about the gun. No one does.

It really got outta hand one morning when I was driving down the street and I thought I saw Douchebag’s jeep in the Wells Fargo on Washington and Lincoln.

All caution and rationality went flying out the window as I made a sudden and crazed U-turn in the middle of traffic that caused several irate motorists to honk their displeasure. I was so dialed-in to whether or not it was his car that I very nearly ran over an elderly woman who was walking very slowly across the crosswalk.

Thank God, I saw her just in the nick of time and slammed on the breaks... YA FUCKIN ASSHOLE, someone yelled.

I double parked and dashed into the parking lot...it wasn’t Douchebag’s jeep. Some construction worker type in a pickup truck rolled slowly by as I ran back to my car. I didn’t dare make eye contact. I saw him shake his head with disgust from the corner of my eye as he slowly drove by and then sped away.

Nice job, Jerkoff!

The thing has me in its grip. I am completely/totally/permanently consumed. Virtually every single waking moment of my life is saturated with thoughts of Jill; of where she is at that moment, of who she is with if anyone at all, of where Douchebag is and where Douchebag’s car is. What a merciless living hell I was in.

Every single night after work I drive by Jill’s house to see if her car is there and it always is. But just seeing her car isn’t enough and I get out, make sure the coast is clear and bolt into the alleyway underneath her window and climb the fence and peek inside. And some strange sense of satisfaction and of hope lays its hand upon me as I drive away knowing she is still alone, either sleeping or studying or diddling about on Facebook.

But just knowing she was home on weeknights wasn’t enough. I had custody of Genevieve on Friday and Saturday nights. I’d been taking my little girl for rides for as long as she’d been alive. Off we’d go, down Venice Boulevard, making a slight detour along the way to drive past Jill’s place to see if her car was there. But even that wasn’t enough. I began waking up at 2:30-3:00 in the morning, quietly getting dressed, silently grabbing my keys, unlocking the door like a backward burglar, and sneaking out to do a drive-by, leaving Genevieve, albeit briefly, alone.

Then one Sunday afternoon, we were coming home from the park and I saw Douchebag’s vehicle parked two blocks from my apartment. Adrenaline surged through my veins. I had to figure out what was going on. Later that night I walked over to the corner where I’d seen his car parked but it wasn’t there. I went behind the nearest building and looked in the parking lot and there it was.

Next I walked up to the tenant directory and wrote down every single name. When I got home I searched Facebook, attaching Douchebag to every last name I’d copied down...and there he was. Douchebag Kwiekum. I think it’s pronounced: Kwik-kum.

This newfound information was like a brand new torture-toy for me to maim my soul. I spent countless hours driving back and forth between Jill and Douchebag’s places hell-bent on proving to myself that they were not seeing each other, and convincing myself that they weren’t because they were parking their cars at separate buildings.

Through my relentless surveillance efforts I was all but certain that Douchebag and Jill were a one-night thing; a baffling mystery that still causes me to scratch my head when I think about it.

5.

I should tell you that this all-consuming obsession had spilled onto my online life as well. Jill had blocked me on Facebook a long time ago. So I simply created what I call a bozo account, just a fake account with no profile picture or information, or anything. Essentially it’s a vehicle that allows me to cruise her page. But her security settings don’t allow you to see very much. I need more. I need to get her to friend me. 

I started creating fake Facebook accounts with the specific purpose of getting Jill to friend them. At first I pretended to be some outdoorsy and rugged-looking guy like Douchebag. I did that by finding a guy with similar features and cutting and pasting all the pics he’d posted into said fake account. The next step was to get some of Jill’s friends to friend him before...the moment of truth...asking Jill to friend him.

The going was really slow. It took forever just to get 100 friends and when I finally sent Jill a friend request...she ignored it. Back to the drawing board. Maybe a fake girl account would be more effective.

Next up was Jennifer Kennedy; a college-aged cutie that I thought might do the trick. It didn’t. It was simply taking way too long to get a couple hundred or so friends to make the profile look legit. Along the way, Facebook realized the account was fraudulent and put the kibosh on it.

Now what? How about a Hispanic girl? BINGO! Viva La Raza!

Here’s the result of this inadvertent experiment in the social sciences. White people are too fickle to just friend another white stranger—not so La Raza. Evelyn Estrada, a cute thirty-something grad-student scored 200 friends in less than a week and I’d say at least half of those were horny Latin dudes sending her friend requests, hoping to hook up. Incidentally, what a coincidence, Evelyn went to Cal State LA, just like Jill!

Shaping and molding the Evelyn account for maximum effect was next on the docket and I did that by putting recovery-oriented things on her profile, and had her posting all the 12-step slogans like, One Day At A Time Let Go, Let God, etc. Then I started sending friend requests to a dozen or so of Jill’s Scumbag Center friends, all of whom immediately accepted. The moment of truth had arrived. I sent Jill a friend request and she immediately accepted.   What a Pandora’s Box that was to open. I could now check on her page 24/7 whether home or on the road and I did. I must have looked at her page at least ten times a day. At night, when I came home from work, I’d drive by her house, see her car parked in her car port and then look on Evelyn’s chat list to see if Jill was on Facebook.

And I tortured myself by staring at pictures that she’d posted, cutting and pasting them into a folder and staring at them endlessly. And it was hell. I couldn’t’ stand it. Thoughts of murder and of suicide began entering my mind more and more and more.

I tore down the Evelyn account to escape the hell-trap it forged for me. I did that by unfriending all 300-plus friends and then removing all the pictures/posts/comments as well and then locking myself out of the password, by typing a new one with my eyes closed; a tricky art form that I’ve become quite expert at.

But what a surprise, in no time I was at it again. Erin Estevez, a sweltering hot twenty-something college girl had 300 friends in less than a week and Jill was one of those delighted to make her acquaintance as well.

I must have repeated this process four or five times. Sometimes I wondered if Jill knew it was me all along and was simply taking delight in torturing me.

Then one night I see Douchebag at the Scumbag Center with this really pretty girl. I get up and leave through the rear exit. His jeep