Give Me Your Load

[Excerpt]


     I’m watching a lactating camgirl ride her partner. She’s moaning, he’s swearing—they’re sweaty and hot and young. Sometimes she does this trick I like where she sprays her milk at the camera. I reach behind me at a pile of used tissues and find one with a little life left.
     She rides him for a while and then gives the guy a look saying do it. So he grabs her boobs and starts squeezing them like plush dolls but nothing comes out.
     She shakes her head like no silly. She shakes her head like she’s dad showing son how to throw a baseball. She grabs her breast. She emphasizes coaxing the milk from the back of the breast into the nipple area. Not just fondling around generally. She says ‘like toothpaste’.
     So she rides him and his hands are at her sides holding her waist. He looks like he’s found a suitcase of cash he doesn’t know what to do with. He looks like he’s trying to picture something that happened long ago. He looks into the camera, which is eye contact with me. He raises two hands up to her breasts while she’s riding him and milks her. I throw a tissue at the pile.

     When I was in school I took a biology course in a large auditorium.

     One time our lecturer entered the hall and shut down hundreds of chattering people with the word TARANTULA.
     She said this lecture is about what makes female tarantulas sexually excited about male tarantulas. Are you ready.
     We cheered.
     She took off her glasses and rubbed her forehead while she talked. She said, counter-intuitively, none of the traits that contribute to survival in males contribute at all to female excitement.
     She said isn’t that fucked up?
     We cheered.

     She said I didn’t understand that, so I studied it. She said this lecture is about what makes female tarantulas sexually excited.

     She said any questions.

     I had a question so I raised my hand and yelled ‘me’. I asked how can you tell when a spider likes a spider.

     She said they’re called tarantulas. She said you know it when you see it.

     We cheered.

     She pulled out two tarantulas, a male and a female, from under the lecturn. She put the female tarantula in the middle of the desk and the male tarantula on the left end.

     The female tarantula pretty much just stood there. The male did too.

     The lecturer said we discovered the amount of hair on the front legs of the male tarantula is key in attracting females.

    Some people laughed but it made sense to me. It made sense that it didn’t make any sense at all.

    She said so we made an image of what we thought the most attractive male tarantula might look like. We modeled him based on our research and came up with this:

    She projected the designed image of a sexually perfect male tarantula.

    I looked at this cartoonishly disproportionate tarantula. The insanity of the forest of hairs on his front legs made me sad for him. He wasn’t designed to do anything besides fuck.

    She said now watch this, and turned the female tarantula around to face the projected image.

    She attacked.

    She splayed herself on the wall, covering the image. No air between them, no nothing—no cool, no courtship, just her limbs trembling on wall.

    Here I recognized in her the thing I feel all the time, called desire. She’s got a male tarantula right in front of her but goes for the hentai image on screen instead.

    The lecturer looked in my general direction and asked me if she answered my question. Some people laughed at this but I didn’t. It looked exactly like my life.


    Tonight when I am lying in bed with my laptop on my chest and a tissue next to me ready to catch my load, when I’m private browsing looking for someone with large breasts or a butt that ripples or a face that reminds me of someone I once loved, I decide I’m going to jerk off as many times as I can.

    I want to create as much distance between me and my horniness as I can. If I can masturbate 5 or 6 times I might get a few days of peace.

    Let me be empty for a moment.

    Anime boobs on my screen—a waist that comes in so narrow the hip bones touch each other. An ass that balloons out to fill the room. She is 18 she is wearing a bra her face looks kind I want to see her naked but I can’t because she’s wearing clothes. Who is this angel I need more but there are no more pictures besides this one.

    Here is when if I had asthma I would tear my room apart looking for my inhaler, but I don’t have asthma. My eyes are just seizing in my head.

    When I google her username I thank God I can type. She sells naked pictures online. I look with my head for my debit card but can’t find it.
    Whenever I move I become tangled in the cords that are charging all the devices I need to get by. I rip them all out of the wall—I become free in my bed for a moment and I send her fifty dollars so I can come to the image of her naked body.

    Tonight I become a prisoner. I carry an empty plastic cup to the bathroom and I fill it with cold water from the tap. I bring a bag of mixed nuts into bed with me and I set the cup of water on the nightstand.

    I make a nest with the blankets I have and stack the pillows so they alone support my head. Before I begin I search for a way I can position my body that’s so effortless I could stay in it forever.

    I pull my dick out and open my new content.

    Two engorged breasts jiggle behind a struggling tank top and I come. I take a drink of water and see them laying there still and I come again. I eat some mixed nuts and put a cool towel on my head and I look at this next picture where she’s in a cow onesie with black and white spots on her knees and breasts hanging to the ground and I focus hard on her and forget the way that my room looks and all the friends I’ve ever had. I cannot remember my name I’m coming. I grab toilet paper and drape it all over the walls, I take off my sheets and replace them with toilet paper. I drink water and I come. I have made myself this prison so that I can live here forever and I come.

    I come until the end of time. I’m in so much trouble I don’t know how I will ever get better. I’m too far-gone.


    When I come back into the world it’s morning and everything that has ever happened to me is a faraway dream that only happened to someone else. I have a text message from my old friend. He’s asking if I wouldn’t mind showing his friend around because she’s stranded in LA. He explains she only came to visit her friend but her friend got called in to work twelve-hour days so she’s just sitting in an apartment in Koreatown all alone.
    I say sure thing and he says you’re so sweet you’re the man.

    I tell him it’s no problem at all.
    He says cool here’s her number—her name is Laura.

    He doesn’t know how desperate I am for some random event to change my life. He doesn’t recognize he’s giving me a chance to escape it.

    I sleep deeply thinking of how if I am just patient that there are moments like tomorrow that will save me.


    When I show up to Laura’s house I have all my windows down and the music is loud. I put on my sunglasses and I get out of the car and I stand casually by the driver’s side door. When she comes down the stairs of her friend’s apartment I want my image to be a painting in her mind.

    She walks out the front gate and we see each other. She looks exactly like a pretty person. She tells me how she came all the way from Boston to see her friend but now she’s all alone.
    She says I appreciate you taking the time.

    She has no idea I have no life. She has no idea that I don’t have anything I’m taking time from.

    So today I devote my entire life to Laura. I think about my sadness and my dreams of being saved by being given beautiful days with someone who looks at me and knows exactly what I need, even if I don’t.

    We get in the car and do our seatbelts. I look at Laura who is friendless, who only has me to show her this city, and I close my eyes and think about everything good that has ever happened to me. I try to crush it all into a ball I can put in her hand. I want to give her all the best memories of my life. We drive.

    Almost first thing, she tells me a story about the girl she was seeing recently, but I stop listening almost immediately because the story is just a way of clarifying the platonic nature of our relationship.
    She’s saying something about coffee and late night voice messages and I want to turn to her and say I appreciate your delicacy in handling my expectations I was already strapped to a rocket hauling towards my private world of sexual daydreams. 
    I ask her Laura if she’s hungry and she says I’m always hungry. Laura is so cool.

    Right now, Laura is in my passenger’s seat and is holding a beer in a brown bag and half a delicious taco she’s almost done scarfing.
    Her phone is vibrating so much it falls off her lap and onto the floor in front of her. She says “sorry sorry” because it’s happening when I’m in the middle of telling a long story it’s clear I really want her to be paying attention to.
    I tell her you can take that and she says no no.
    She says it’s a guy I made out with last night before I left. I think he’s feeling sad about it.
    My head is a collection of metal parts that run calculations until they spit out some set of words that will help unravel my confusion.
    I say sorry, I don’t mean to sound ignorant—are you bisexual?
    She looks like I’ve revealed to her very quickly how much of a moron I am.
    She exhales loudly and I say by the way if you don’t like that label, or if you don’t like any label at all, that’s totally cool—I just heard you mention a girl and then a guy so I thought I’d ask.
    Laura looks at my face like I might not be a waste of time and says I prefer no label but if you want to use one you can call me pansexual.
    Somewhere in my head I think of the word pansexual. I think of being in love with everything, red cars, lampposts, ravioli. I think of pans, obviously, and I think of how I don’t know what anything means. I become excited to be hanging out with someone who keeps saying things I don’t understand. It feels like growth, like I’m going to keep growing and maybe if I hold on tight enough to Laura when she gets up to very high speeds it will prevent my own decay.

    When we’re on Mulholland drive it’s nighttime and the headlights only reveal the ground in front of us as we ascend up further into the mountains. I tell her I’m putting this on in the spirit of California and I play Pet Sounds.

    When we clear the wide turns I park the car in a dirt shoulder and ask her to have a look to her right.

    What you are looking at—that is the Los Angeles night. That is the tiny lights of every human life stretched across the city. We are standing in the mountain air and my jacket is blowing like a cape in the wind. I look out at the city and then I look at Laura. Her eyes are closed and she is smiling in the wind.

    I ask her if this is exotic to her and she says yes. I say good.

    How is it possible that I’ve lived such a miserable life and have also accumulated so many ideas of ways to live beautifully. How do I know how to give her these inspired moments when all I want to do is eat chips and blow my load into toilet paper.

    We drive west out into Malibu. When we drive by the beach I ask her if she’d like to touch the sand with her feet, if she’d rather we do that while we’re out here.
    She says she would so we do.
    We get out of the car and run towards the place where highway turns to rocks and then sand. She stops at a steep incline of rocky dirt leading down to the beach and I say Jews don’t do that and ask if we can walk along the highway until we find some stairs.

    We pee in bushes. When I’m sitting on a rock facing the ocean next to Laura I think only romantic thoughts but try to ascend them. I try to imagine Laura as a human being I don’t want to kiss and just enjoy the company of, but it’s hard. I still would rather kiss her but I don’t want to ruin something good.

    We sit near each other quietly in front of the ocean. She tells me to close my eyes and to focus on the sounds. That it’s a kind of meditation, a way of staying present—that I couldn’t imagine how many sounds the ocean starts to make when you pay attention.

    So I close my eyes for a while and try to access a place of peace in my double-penetrated mind.

    I sit there for a while and wait for the ocean to come to me. I hear of course the rushing of the waves. I hear the exhale of the water coming out and the inhale of it coming in. I hear the high-frequency hiss of the water being sucked into the tide and the bass of the thunder in the night.

    Laura asks me what I’m doing.


    I say I’m doing what you said to do.


    She laughs and says sorry.


    When I open my eyes I see that the ocean is this tiny thing that only takes up the very bottom of our field of view, that the sky is really what takes up everything. But when your eyes are closed the whole world is the ocean.


    I’m going to collect more love than anyone has collected before and it will make up for everything I missed. I will have a triumphant third act that justifies my life of disappointments. When I become the perfect spider you are going to love me.


    Laura asks if I want to smoke weed with her. I tell her I don’t like getting high because it makes me attack myself.

    She says you have a large persona. The weed will help kill it.

    I smoke weed with Laura so that I can become a person. I want to try and join her in the wonderful place she lives.

    She says hold on one minute I have to tell my friend something.

    She leaves the people she loves these long voice messages telling them all the ways they’ve inspired her. She tells them how she sees them and it seems like it’s in the ways they always hoped someone would. Sometimes she puts her phone to her ear and listens to a message someone sends back. She smiles or she laughs or it looks like she’s about to cry. She tells me I should try this sometime. I tell her I will but I won’t.

    Laura sees my eyes locked to the ground. She sees I’m so locked in my head.
    She says hey Sam—she moves closer to me and takes my hand. She says to me, I love everyone. Like, even though we’ve only just met, I love you. I love you as much as a stranger, I love you as much as my greatest love.

    I tell Laura that I need to go off for a moment and be alone and have a cigarette.

    She says ok you can do that. But before I go she tells me how my head makes up thoughts to tell me the story of my anxiety but it’s really just things created by my body. She says when you’re thinking about how your whole life and how all you’ve done is damage anyone who tries to get close to you it might just mean that your heart rate is elevated or that there’s a tenseness in your shoulder. Basically, there’s no one you need to apologize to—you just need a massage.

    I try imagining receiving a massage that makes me recognize I’ve never done anything wrong in my life.
    I can’t imagine it working at all.

    I ask Laura if she understands it’s abnormal that she escaped childhood without it going terribly, that most people don’t get to escape it without being crushed. I tell her most of the world will spend the rest of their lives cycling through painful and ineffective coping mechanisms just to try and get to a place where they can catch their breath.

    When I’m smoking, safe and alone and too high, I think about what Laura said to me about loving everyone equally. I decide I’m going to ask her about it.

    The first thing I say is how can you feel that intensity for everyone. It must be exhausting loving like you do.

    She says that’s my problem. She says I’m worried I’ll never love the person I’m dating more than I love a stranger. Every time I’ve tried it’s always ended because it’s the same thing. I don’t know if a bigger love will ever happen to me.

    She says I don’t think I’ve ever been hurt badly by anyone I’ve loved. Then she laughs and says never mind, what am I saying. She shakes her head. She says people don’t really call it sexual violence when you’re in a relationship. Sometimes even I forget to.

    Nobody is free no matter how lucky they are. Someone in pain is always waiting for you. When they find you they will eat you alive.


    Since the night I saw the perfect woman, hundreds of other people have accessed her photos. There are threads documenting her unreal beauty.

    I scroll so far down the tortured wishes of all my sorry brothers, it is so long a list that my hand seizes up and won’t work anymore. There isn’t anything human left in this world.

    One comment says you are all blowing your loads to a fat hairy man who is taking all your money and spending it on gas station hot dogs.

    Another comment says the nut police have arrived.

    Another comment says what does it matter

    Another comment says My guess is it’s a girl wearing prosthetics but it could definitely be a dude. I think its fuckin hot but its all a fantasy. Theres some really good stuff if u get over the fact its fake.

    Another comment says we’re posting blowup dolls now?

    There are photos attached with notes drawn in MS Paint. Circles around shirt buttons that are warped or elongated. Moles on her cleavage that are circled with the words written “artifact”. More warped line notes. A clear line around her jaw and around her eyes, “images imported, seams here.”

    Another comment says get her real name.

    Another comment says get her address.

    Another comment says I wanna sit outside her bedroom window and cum until I die.

    And then:

    dm for address losers, 100$ or gtfo

    imagine paying 100 to see a fat guy’s plastic titties

    Another comment says that photo looks like a composite. As in, it’s not just that the tits are fake, everything there is fake and it did not even involve an actual person when it was made. It’s the sort of shit no remotely sane person would find attractive or even fap to, so some of you should be worried. He links to a website in China with a tan colored silicone vest carrying breasts that block out the sky.

    This comment gets to me. I want to know how far-gone I am—to have some kind of barometer for my insanity.
    Listen to this sound in my room. It’s my fingers going along the keys and the sound of the water coming down my mouth. It is the sound of tap, tap, tap. There are no perfect girls in the world besides the one in my mind. When you see me now I’m the same as ever, it’s just that I’m out one hundred dollars.

    This is the reason I get in my car right now: I do not have much going on anymore because I let it all go. So I will take this mystery and make it mine. I will use what I have left and try and make a life out of it.

`Look at how tight my fingers are on the steering wheel when I throw the car in drive and pull out. Can you see the smoke billow from the cigarette that is tipped out of my mouth when I am going onto this night road. Were you listening just now when I said it under my breath? I told you I’m going to find the woman. Or the man with the prosthetic titties.







Sam Fishman