I was twenty-nine years old and I had nothing. Not even any prospects. Look up ‘loser’ in the dictionary and you would find my picture. My entire adult life had consisted of one dead end job after another, and repeated firings from the few decent jobs that I lucked into. I couldn’t seem to go a whole year without an “incident”. Is it my fault that all of my employers were complete fuckheads?

At least, I didn’t still live with my parents. Technically.

I rented the apartment above their garage.

I couldn’t beat the deal. Fifty dollars a month and paid utilities. The carbon monoxide thing was a concern, but for the price, I took that risk. Besides, if I died, big fucking deal. I didn’t have a lot to lose.

My love life was non-existent. I was working at Pizza Hell again, which didn’t help. Contrary to what you see in the porno movies, women just aren’t dying to fuck the pizza guy. Occasionally, a fat chick would come on to me, but that was probably just because I smelled like garlic.

I didn’t look much better than I did in high school. I feel like I always had the potential to be fairly good looking, if it were not for a few minor things. I have never had any fashion sense. Black concert T-shirts go good with jeans and sneakers. Who needs more than that? With my thick-framed glasses and pudgy midsection, I sort of resemble a studious toad at a chocolate-lovers heavy metal party. While not hideous, I have never been a pleasant surprise to a blind date.

Girlfriends had come and gone over the years, but not many. I had one long-term relationship and actually came to within a few months of getting married. The divorce would have followed quickly after, I’m sure. I can be a real bastard.

After realizing how bad I really was, I decided to do the right thing and remain single. I didn’t want to be with a woman simply for companionship when there were no other feelings toward her. And I couldn’t justify inflicting myself on someone I truly liked. Being alone seemed like the best solution. And for the most part I always enjoyed the solitude. I had to answer to no one; I did exactly as I pleased. It was good.

Of course, I had to continually hear about the grandchildren I was robbing my mother of, and my dad thought I was gay. He could not imagine a man who wouldn’t do absolutely anything to get laid. It seems like most people can’t open their minds that wide. Wide enough to accept self-control in human males. Granted, speaking in broad generalities, men are deviant fucks. I once had a friend who screwed a couch. But that’s not a fair assessment of all males.

Also a problem, most of my friends were either married or seriously involved with someone. Their wives and girlfriends felt like they had some moral obligation to set me up with one of their single friends. I always objected and never let it go very far. I explained how that if this woman was a true friend, putting her with me was a bad idea. If she still insisted, I would simply ask, “ So, does she like it up the ass?”

That usually put a stop to the nonsense.

The worst part about being alone was that my ex-fiancée was in the newspaper every nine months like clockwork popping out a new kid from the guy she left me for. They had been married for a little over three years and had four children. I never saw her or talked to her anymore, but I still knew what her vagina was up to.

I know, sometimes I come off a little bitter about how things worked out between us. It was not an easy or amicable split. However, it was definitely necessary. Who could blame her? If I weren’t me, I would have left me, too.

But I couldn’t, so I remained alone. Totally alone.

In fact, I only had two steady sexual outlets. One was Gazonga’s, a tiny little dive of a titty bar. Only by the thinnest stretch of the imagination could this place be classified as a “gentleman’s club”. The girl’s seemed to like me though, because unlike the majority of the other regulars, I bathed before coming in. Sure, Gazonga’s was more of a tease than an outlet, but at least I got to see some naked woman flesh.

The other outlet, sadly, was Challenge Masturbation. Anyone can crank one off to a dirty magazine. Challenge Masturbation is a much more demanding sport. Try beating off to the Jesus channel while thinking pure thoughts. Try spanking your monkey while having a normal phone conversation with your grandmother. Really, go try it. I’ll wait.

Not so easy, is it?