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Book online Ā«How To Rape A Straight Guy Sullivan, Michel (best e reader for epub TXT) šŸ“–Ā». Author Sullivan, Michel



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-- Iā€™m not queer for man-sex, donā€™t yā€™know -- but heā€™s one of the few black guys Iā€™ve seen whoā€™s not just black, if that makes sense.  I mean, heā€™s just a guy, yā€™know?  A good-lookinā€™ guy, anā€™ Iā€™m comfortable ā€˜round them for some weird reason.  Good-lookinā€™ girls I just wanna fuck.  Good-lookinā€™ guys, I wanna be pals.  Wanna be buds.  Tight buds, yā€™know?

Even fuckinā€™ Anthony, as much as I hate the fucker, I -- shit, I gotta admit, I did want to be buds with him.  He wasnā€™t the Big Man On Campus; the football quarterback always got that job ā€˜cause, for some weird reason every one of ā€˜em looked like they shouldā€™ve been on a box of ā€œWheaties.ā€  But Anthony, as uptight anā€™ ā€œproperā€ as he was, he played ball like it oughta be played -- easy anā€™ natural, like he was destined for the majors.  He actually made it to the big leagues for a few years, till he ruined his knee slidinā€™ into home, one game.  I think thatā€™s why I let him con me into givinā€™ him that joint -- for a buck, which didnā€™t even cover its cost; that anā€™ I sort of wanted to see just how loose heā€™d get once he got stoned.

Yā€™see, he reminded me of pictures I saw of the guy mom said was my old man.  Some hippie or yippie or whatever they were called at that time, passinā€™ through Wyominā€™ on his way to Seattle.  In a VW Microbus that wouldnā€™t go moreā€™n sixty downhill.  He picked my mom up in Cheyenne anā€™ she rode with him up to Sheridan -- that was momā€™s moneymaker route -- anā€™ somewhere along in there I got started.  ā€œFor free,ā€ she said, ā€œā€˜cause he looked like Jesus.ā€  Anā€™ he did.  Itā€™s weird.  She took some Polaroids of him by a creek in the middle of nowhere anā€™ he seemed to glow in ā€˜em.  Long brown hair.  Deep sleepy eyes...he was probably stoned.  Golden skin.  An expression of peace anā€™ happiness...no, he was definitely stoned.  Even with somethinā€™ of a beard, you could tell he had a strong chin anā€™ good nose -- like mine.  Anā€™ he had a perfect mouth.  A manā€™s mouth; I got more my momā€™s lips.  He was wearinā€™ this Indian-lookinā€™ pullover that was so light, you could almost see through it, anā€™ that with tight low-cut jeans, you could tell he was in good shape.  I got some good genes off him.  Wonder what ever happened to him, ā€˜cause she never saw him, again.  Never heard from him.  Nothinā€™.  He probably donā€™t even know heā€™s got me as a son.  Lucky fuck.  Whoā€™d want tā€™ be related to a guy whoā€™s dumb-fuck enough to get sent to jail by some tight-assed dumbfuck heā€™s tryinā€™ tā€™ be friends with for buckā€™s worth of pot?

Shit, where was I?  Walkinā€™ down Santa Monica.  Smilinā€™ at the faggots who looked me over anā€™ whistled anā€™ made their faggoty little comments anā€™ shit.  Anā€™ the whole way Iā€™m thinkinā€™, ā€œDream about it, cocksuckers.  I donā€™t need you, right now.  Iā€™m in control, asswipes.  Iā€™m king of the fuckinā€™ world.ā€

I didnā€™t realize it, then, but lookinā€™ back I can see thatā€™s when I first got this hint of an idea of what it was I really needed.  Control.  Power.  No matter what you call it, makinā€™ another guy do what you want him to do when heā€™d never want to do it on his own -- thatā€™s the best feelinā€™ in the world as regards beinā€™ the man.  I felt it with my first punk, when somethinā€™ behind my heart started racinā€™.  Somethinā€™ deep inside me that said, ā€œFuck drugs, fuck booze, fuck worries forever.  Right now, you are the master.  You are in control.  You are the man, anā€™ you ainā€™t nobody who can get pissed on.ā€  Anā€™ here I was about to get it, again.

I dunno if I can really get across the feelinā€™s I caught hold of as I walked down that street.  The tingle of my jeans anā€™ shirt not...not rubbinā€™ but whisperinā€™ against my thighs anā€™ pecs anā€™ tits anā€™ ass, makinā€™ me feel like I could cum without a thought.  The cool night air movinā€™ round my face.  The breezes whipped up as busses anā€™ cars zipped past me in the opposite direction.  The sounds of silence over long stretches of the street, where the cars anā€™ trucks anā€™ busses were stopped at one corner or another.  It all added to the moment.  I was startinā€™ to feel...I dunno, light headed, I guess.

I passed the ā€œpinkā€ part of Santa Monica anā€™ headed into the red-light area.  Passed tired lookinā€™ kids waitinā€™ by bus stops in hopes of makinā€™ fifty bucks for the night.  Most of ā€˜em looked like the junked-out tossed-aside runaways that they were anā€™ it almost hurt to see ā€˜em.  But some of ā€˜em were still kinda fresh.  Kinda still with an attitude.  Anā€™ as I passed ā€˜em anā€™ they glanced me over to see if I was gonna be their next John, Iā€™d think, ā€œI could take you back into an alley anā€™ make you give me what you charge for, no problem.ā€  Anā€™ itā€™d give me a jolt that shot from behind my heart anā€™ into my balls anā€™ spread over my thighs to make me even crazier.

Then I passed Highland anā€™ zigged up to Sunset, since my crib was up near Franklin anā€™ Cahuenga.  That brought me past the ā€œA Clubā€, anā€™ I saw these sleek neat Young Hollywood guys in their clean pressed shirts anā€™ hundred dollar jeans bouncinā€™ in anā€™ out of the place, all tryinā€™ to look hot for these tiny Hollywood sluts with inflatable tits who had zero interest in ā€˜em unless they had cash enough to buy ā€˜em more than a leaf of lettuce to eat.  I stopped across the little side street anā€™ watched a group of guys by

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