How To Rape A Straight Guy by Sullivan, Michel (phonics reader .TXT) 📗

nails dig so deep, they draw blood.  Fucks where you wet the sheets with your sweat, even on a cold winter night.  I think sometimes she got into a rip just to get started towards one of those fucks, an’ if that was the case, I could get one goin’ just as often as she could.  But sometimes...sometimes all I saw was that stinkin’ one bedroom rat-trap we had in Hollywood an’ the crappy furniture dressed to look new an’ the never-endin’ boxes of Top Ramen we had to eat instead of real food, an’ I just couldn’t get up for it an’ she’d get t’ be too fuckin’ much an’...shit, I’d have to bust out an’ walk it off or lose it an’ turn to my fists.

‘Course, I know better than to hit her, now.  Last time I did, I almost lost my parole.  She had to threaten to take ‘em to court or somethin’ to make my P-O back off.  He’d come by the rat trap to check up on me an’ he saw she had a split lip an’ he went all ape-shit on me till Connie slammed in.

“I fuckin’ had a couple of fuckin’ beers an’ fuckin’ fell out of my fuckin’ car!” she screamed at the asshole.  “You got a fuckin’ problem with it?”  One of the few times she used her mouth -- an’ attitude -- for somethin’ good.  Man, she knew how to make morons like him listen, even when they’re tryin’ to hand out some shit.

Now understand, ten years of marriage -- well, four really, taking Mid-State into account -- gets you to where you know the bullshit behind the voice an’ can usually figure out what it is they’re really pissed about.  An’ deep down I knew that most of the time with Connie she was really rantin’ about some “I’m-The-Artist” director or the usual five-second TV starlet, not about me.  She worked on movies as a clothes chick, no, “costumer”, that’s it.  But this time I just wasn’t hearin’ anything but her crap, for some reason, so as soon as she got onto the bitch wagon, I could tell where it was headed an’ busted out to grab a brew.

Problem was, I left without any cash.  Like I had so much.  People really ain’t so interested in hirin’ barely educated ex-cons for those six-figure jobs you hear so much about.  So I was cleanin’ fuckin’ offices after hours for a dyke an’ her pussy in a couple downtown office buildin’s for about a buck more than minimum wage.  An’ that wasn’t every day; just when they had a big job.  An’ then they paid me under the table.  Meanin’ no taxes taken out.  No benefits.  No nothin’.  I didn’t have a job lined up for that night an’ on top of it, I’d only worked five days in two weeks.  Really makes you want to keep on the straight an’ narrow, as this ass-wipe of a priest said to me on my way out of County, once.  Like he knew dick about how the real world worked.  As I finally figured out.

Not that it mattered -- me not havin’ the cash, I mean.  I knew how to get a beer or two without payin’.  I was still on this side thirty, sort of blond an’ smooth skinned.  Well, except for some pimple scars along my chin.  But even those made me look younger.  An’ I got a nice dick.  Not huge like a horse, but big enough an’ thick an’ cut, just like the rest of me.  I keep myself in shape, an’ I do mean top shape.  My gym’s my only real money taker -- after rent an’ food -- ‘cause if I ever go back inside, it’s the best way of lettin’ ‘em know straight off I can’t be punked out.  Not easy, anyway.  ‘Course, I got a week in solitary my first day in Mid-state ‘cause some dumb fuck of a Nazi warrior an’ his scum decided I was gonna be their bitch.  Only reason I kept ‘em outside of me was ‘cause I near ripped one of the Nazi’s ears off with my bare hands.  That added to the rep I already sort-of had, so the fuckers left me alone after that, lemme tell you.

So not to brag, but all I gotta do is a few pushups, tuck my shirt in tight, hit Queer Town an’ let my muscles do the talkin’.  An’ if I gotta put up with a few pinches an’ grabs in exchange for the quality brew, that’s okay.  Sometimes I’ll even let one of ‘em suck me off for a cash outlay.  Makes them happy, gets my mind off Connie’s crap, an’ takes my rocks off in a way that don’t mean nothin’.  I mean, once you been in jail a few years, you know a mouth’s a mouth, don’t matter whose it is.

So there I was in this skanky little fag joint in happy hour lettin’ this one fat-assed faggot “ply me with alcohol” in the hopes I’ll get too drunk to push his hand away when he puts it on my crotch.  His problem is, he don’t know how much I can drink.  Not that I’m a drunk or anything.  I lived without it in Mid-state; didn’t even think about it.  But this queer don’t know that, so he’s real easy to string along.  I’m even thinkin’ I’ll get a hundred extra since he wants my dick so bad.

Anyway, the fat-assed faggot’s name is Wayne.  Of course.  Half the guys I met in my life named Wayne were queer.  Like it’s a necessary part of being called that or somethin’.  The one thing my mom did right was name me Curt.  It’s a real name.  A guy’s name.  Shit, it’s a whole attitude.  Short.  Sharp.  To the point.  No bullshit.  Yeah, that’s me.  Cut the crap an’ get to reality.

But back