How To Rape A Straight Guy by Sullivan, Michel (phonics reader .TXT) š
Book online Ā«How To Rape A Straight Guy by Sullivan, Michel (phonics reader .TXT) šĀ». Author Sullivan, Michel
Yāknow, we spent moreān six years in that stinkinā hell-hole of a Wyoming town. With my mom turninā tricks at the truck stop for money for booze. Anā her mom makinā sure I got fed anā my diapers got changed anā I got a hug, once in a while, anā all that shit. At least, till she keeled over from a heart attack that nobody -- not the paramedics or the E-R doctors -- believed was a heart attack till it killed her. I was four. By the time I hit six, Iād figured out how to fix my own cereal anā rip off milk from other doorsteps anā keep myself goinā while mom slept off her drunks.
We didnāt move to LA till the state tried to take me away from her. Fuckinā bureaucrats anā āChristianā folk didnāt give a shit about me till my grandmother was dead from takinā care of me anā my mom got preggers, again. Then, by God, they wanted to make fuckinā sure I was raised right. Same for the kid my mom was carryinā. Fuckinā hypocrites. They didnāt give a fuck about my mom gettinā abortions till her usual guy cut too deep into some rich bitchās scared little girl anā she bled to death; then they ended the āillegalā practice everybody in town knew about. Those āgood Christian folkā who turned my mom in, they wouldnāt take me in or any kid like me. No fuckinā way. Thatād mean practicinā what they preached, anā that might be real inconvenient. No, I was gonna get farmed out to some foster family who were more interested in the state stipend than in me, anā if that didnāt work then Iād get dumped onto the state. So me anā mom, we split in thā middle of the night with some trucker who just loved her mouth.
Jesus, over the next seven years we lived in every part of Southern California there was. LA. Oxnard. Oceanside -- mom loved Marines for some fuckinā reason; maybe my dad was one, once. Riverside -- which stinks, anā I mean really. San Bernadino, Santa Clarita, Palmdale, Ojai, you name it, I could probably give you an address there. Anā she turned tricks the whole time. Till she married this insurance salesman from Pasadena who ādidnāt care about her past.ā By that point, I was thirteen goinā on thirty, anā nobody had say over me but me. Still, things calmed down a lot. For a while. Till I realized he was a cheap-assed son-of-a-bitch who only took my brother anā me in ācause we came with the package anā he wasnāt gonna give either of us a fuckinā penny moreān he had to. Anā I got goinā in the drug biz. Anā wound up at county.
Anyhow, when I was eighteen, I got dumped out on the world. I couldnāt go home if Iād wanted to. My mom anā her motherfucker told me there was no fuckinā way theyād let me back in; I was too āout of controlā andād be a ābad influence on the other kids.ā Anā I had nobody else to hold onto. All I had was a few bucks anā the address for a halfway house in Silver Lake. So I headed there. Telloās church was in Hollywood. I figured heād help me get a job anā get my life goinā right.
But he didnāt do shit. Didnāt make one fuckinā call. Didnāt return calls when I gave him as a reference. Got to where he was always āin a meetināā when I tried tā call him. Itās like I didnāt exist, anymore. For a while, I thought Iād done somethinā tā piss him off, but I couldnāt figure out what. I mean, I was workinā a regular job at a burger joint for slave wage. I was stayinā in the halfway house. Iād stopped doinā drugs, complete. It didnātā make sense. Then this kid named Mario who was in county before me explained it.
āOut of sight, out of mind,ā he said. I didnāt get it, at first, so Mario laid out the full 4-1-1. āYou aināt around him, no more, vato. Heās like this lifeguard that says heāll save ya from drowninā but when ya really need him, heās on his lunch break anā itās your own damn fault for tryinā to drown at that time. He thinks he did all he had to do while you was inside. Now itās up to you to make it. Even if you drown.ā
God, I felt like a dumb fuck.
But I aināt one, now. Iām not āeducated.ā My grammar sucks anā my two-plus-twoās are about as basic as you can get. But I aināt stupid, not no more. I know how to take stuff that I need anā not get caught. I know how to get what I canāt take without beinā caught. I can do whatever I got to do to keep myself goinā anā not worry ābout it till itās done, if then. I guess youād call that beinā an animal, but if youāre treated like a dog, thatās what you get to be. Like a dog.
A dog.
Shit. That reminds me of this cousin of my momās, lived in Montana. Butte, maybe. He was a mean-assed SOB who wouldnāt do jack for anybody, not even his own family. Anā he had a dog. A scared little mutt he treated like shit. Kicked it. Barely fed it. Yelled at it. I saw him do all that shit the one time I was there. How old was I? Five? Maybe six. Maybe just before we left. Yeah, I think mom went to him for money anā he whined about how broke he was
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