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How to Rape a Straight Guy

First Edition

Published by The Nazca Plains Corporation

Las Vegas, Nevada

2007

ISBN: 978-1-934625-35-4

Ebook: 978-1-61098-040-1

Published by

The Nazca Plains Corporation Ā®

4640 Paradise Rd, Suite 141

Las Vegas NV 89109-8000

Ā© 2007 by The Nazca Plains Corporation. All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in the United States of America.

PUBLISHERā€™S NOTE

How to Rape a Straight Guy is a work of fiction created wholly by Kyle Michel Sullivanā€™s imagination.  All characters are fictional and any resemblance to any persons living or deceased is purely by accident.  No portion of this book reflects any real person or events.

Cover, Fleshblack Images

Art Director, Blake Stephens

Dedication

 

To John, A Republican closet case I once knew.

Acknowledgement

 

The GOP for radicalizing me.  Seriously.  Without their hostility, Iā€™d still be writing gentle vignettes about people and life, or stupid screenplays about unimportant characters running around doing nothing, all truly meaningless.  But now (self-aggrandizing music here) I plan to use my words to slice and dice the hypocrisy of the worldā€¦and have fun doing it.

How to Rape a Straight Guy

First Edition

Kyle Michel Sullivan

Contents

 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

About the Author

 

Chapter One

I did it on a bet.  Yeah, I know, I know -- thatā€™s a stupid-shit reason to do anything, but I was in the mood to do some damage so I figured Iā€™d do it up right.  ā€˜Course, it didnā€™t hurt -- or help -- that I was already pissed at my bitch of a wife from a back-anā€™-forth weā€™d had earlier in the day.  Anā€™ that I had a couple beers under my belt when the idea came up.  Shit, moreā€™n a couple.  But still, all that is even more of a stupid-shit reason to do anything.

I guess it started out when the two faggots that were buyinā€™ those beers got to yammerinā€™ back anā€™ forth over whether or not any guy is capable of queer sex, no matter how straight he is.  They were dumb enough to think I couldnā€™t see what they were up to -- usinā€™ this ā€œargumentā€ as a way to see if I was ā€œavailableā€ for one of ā€˜em.  Or both.  Anā€™ how much itā€™d cost.  Itā€™s so fuckinā€™ lame.  Normally, I can blow that shit off; six years at Mid-State taught me how.  But then they got to where they really were snipinā€™ at each other, so there was no way for me to ignore it all.  Ignore what they were sayinā€™, I mean.  Ignore what it got goinā€™ in my head.

Shit, that makes me sound crazy.  Iā€™m not.  I swear.  But I can see how somebodyā€™d think I was from some of the crap I spew.  Crap that sneaks past that lazy-assed censor in my brain.  Sometimes Iā€™ll pop off with any kind of shit you can imagine, just to get a rise out of somebody.  Kind of a fun game.  Sometimes.  Anā€™ maybe thatā€™s what I was thinkinā€™ when I first popped off at Wayne.  Nothinā€™ serious, here; just a bit of mind-fuck, yā€™know?  I mean, itā€™s not like I started my day thinkinā€™ I needed to get even with the world one asshole at a time.  ā€œPun intended,ā€ as Lennyā€™d say.  Or even that I really wanted to.  But it was just the kind of day -- shit, the kind of world I was in -- that got me driftinā€™ into somethinā€™ really fuckinā€™ stupid.

But thatā€™s how I get, every now anā€™ then.  This hard-assed attitude builds inside me where I want to rip somethinā€™ apart -- books, clothes, laws, people, it donā€™t matter -- anā€™ I canā€™t set myself straight.  Canā€™t see the reality of whatā€™s happeninā€™.  Canā€™t hear the warninā€™ bells screaminā€™ in my head till after Iā€™m done anā€™ itā€™s too late.  So you see, this really wasnā€™t some snap decision I made after my fifth or sixth brew.  It was a slow buildinā€™ ladder of steps that grew up after a few -- hell, moreā€™n a few -- years of crap heaped on me that got topped off by a few hours of ā€œchit-chat,ā€ as Wayneā€™d call it.

The day started out with me gettinā€™ pissed at Connie.  I mean, she can be a mean cunt when she wants to.  Especially when sheā€™s on the rag.  Oh, sheā€™s nice anā€™ sweet anā€™ cute anā€™ all when people are around.  Sheā€™s tiny anā€™ blond, barely comes up to my chin -- somebody said she looks like a little bird, a blond sparrow in heels -- so no way was she gonna come across as bad-assed to anybody.  But when she gets her mouth goinā€™?  Shit, she could make a drill sergeant cry.  Still that didnā€™t happen too much; most of the time we got along great.  Most of the time.

But that day.  That day, she started digginā€™ at me soon as I got up, bitchinā€™ right anā€™ left about it beinā€™ almost five pm anā€™ shit, as if workinā€™ all night donā€™t mean I can sleep in the day.  Now I built up a hide inside the walls so usually I just shrug it off.  Or if Iā€™m in a ā€œfuck youā€ mood, I yell right back at her.  Then we crank it up to master-blaster volume anā€™ have a good rip.  Call each other every skanky name you can think of.  Anā€™ wind up in bed, fuckinā€™.  Anā€™ those could be some damn good fucks, believe me.  Fucks that make you blind in one eye when you cum.  Fucks where your

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