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

me feel better.  ‘Cause it wouldn’t.  I could see that.  I could see they helped feed this -- this roar of anger in me that I’d almost lost control of.  I never wanted to talk with those two little fucks, again.  Never.

But nothin’ was helpin’.  Nothin’ was helpin’.  Knowin’ that didn’t mean shit.  Seein’ that didn’t mean fuck.  I still had that hard-on an’ the churnin’ in my gut an’ the roar in my brain.  An’ I was startin’ to drown in it.  Startin’ to drown.  Knowin’ this is crazy.  This is fuckin’ crazy, Curt!  Fuckin’ crazy!

Then I heard somebody walkin’ towards me.  Heavy feet.  One set.  Prob’ly boots.  Prob’ly a guy.  I looked around an’ could of sworn it was daylight, the lamps were so bright.  I ducked my face down to keep it in shadow.  I didn’t look up till I knew he was passin’ me.  No thought.  No nothin’.  I just grabbed him from behind an’ slung him against the wall an’ pressed my file to his throat an’ snarled, “Shh...shh, not a fuckin’ word.  Not a fuckin’ word.”

I shoved him down to this sort-of alley -- my arm tight around his neck, the file diggin’ into his skin -- till we slammed against this dumpster.  He was tryin’ to say somethin’, but my arm was too tight on his throat.

“Shut up,” was all I could say.  Could snarl, really.

Before he knew what I was doin’, I’d yanked down his pants an’ shoved myself inside him.  He tried to yell, but it got caught in his throat, I had so good a hold on him.  He couldn’t even call for help.  Then I did to him what I wanted to do to Curt -- I mean, Chad.

Shit, it was perfect.  Just bein’ inside him made it all good, again.  Quiet.  Peaceful.  I didn’t take so long, this time.  I got it over, quick an’ dirty.  An’ when I was done an’ the guy was lyin’ on the ground, chokin’ an’ moanin’ an’ gaspin’, I kicked him in the back -- two, three times -- an’ walked away.  An’ when I finally got home, I woke Connie up an’ fucked her, too.

Shit.  Shit, that guy -- t’ this day, I couldn’t tell you what he looked like or how old he was or even for sure that he was a guy instead of a girl.  Well, that part I knew for sure ‘cause of what I made him do, an’ how I smeared his face with it.  I just remember that when I had control of him, it felt right.  Felt good.  So...damn...fuckin’...good.  He was mine.  Even out in the middle of fuckin’ Hollywood.  With cars drivin’ by just a few feet away an’ people walkin’ by just a few yards away an’ cops keepin’ their eyes out for homeless people to roust just a block away, an’ even God watchin’ from all that far away, he was mine.  Nobody else’s.  All mine, an’ I could do what I fuckin’ wanted with him an’ make him do what I fuckin’ wanted an’ he couldn’t do a fuckin’ thing about it.  An’ that’s what I did.

An’ Jesus Christ, I couldn’t wait t’ do it, again.

Chapter Four

We set it up for the next Saturday.  Be there.  Call our guy at six.  Have him over by eight or nine.  I’d take him down then the two of us’d carry him to the bedroom.  I’d do my thing.  Should be done by eleven.  Pay him an’ kick his ass out an’ go scoutin’ for a beer or two by midnight.  An’ if he gave us any trouble, Lenny had some Cat to slip him, an’ let him try an’ make sense after that.  So we were ready.  All nice an’ neat an’ scheduled out like a battle plan.

Lenny decided to use one of those “model/escort” characters who got ads in the back of the weekly fag-rags.  I bet he spent hours lookin’ ‘em over, comparin’ “Scott” with “Tad” an’ “Midwest Stud” with “Italian Stallion” an’ on an’ on.  Dreamin’ of how it’d go.  Jackin’ off to it.  You’d of thought he was plannin’ his weddin’, or somethin’.  The guy he finally settled on called himself “Jeremy.”

I had to admit, Jeremy sounded right.  “Straight stud loves to get serviced.  Junior in college.  6-1, 185, 30” waist, swimmer’s body, 8 by 5 1/2 an’ cut” -- I don’t get what that means, but no way in hell did I want to ask Lenny or Wayne; sometimes you just gotta know what info you don’t need to know, y’know? -- “Your wet dream cum true.”  Of course.  No picture, but Lenny didn’t care.

“He claims he’s straight,” Lenny said.  “That makes it even more like the real thing, right?”

I snickered at it.  Snickered at any guy who says he’s straight but makes his livin’ gettin’ sucked off by another guy.  Or more.  “Gay for pay,” my ass.  When I get sucked off, it’s ‘cause I got no other way to get some quick cash.  Short of dealin’, again.  An’ deep in the back of my mind, I know I’m thinkin’ of Connie the whole time.  Like it’s her doin’ it.  ‘Course, that’s the only way I can do somethin’ like that with Connie.  She hates suckin’ on my dick.  On anybody’s dick.  Her attitude is, Why not just fuck?  So that’s what we’d do.  Havin’ a guy suck me off was just a change of pace.  An’ like I said, in prison you get to learn real quick -- a mouth’s a mouth.  But payin’ to put ads in some twinky West Hollywood piece of superficial shit newspaper?  An’ makin’ a livin’ at it?  What bullshit.

So I came over ‘bout four an’ Lenny showed me the setup.  He’d prepped the guest bedroom, downstairs, takin’ out all the pictures an’ furniture, leavin’ only a four-poster bed an’