Read Online How To Rape A Straight Guy by Kyle Michel Sullivan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kyle Michel Sullivan
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you was inside. Now it’s up to you to make it. Even if you drown.”
God, I felt like a dumb fuck.
But I ain’t one, now. I’m not “educated.” My grammar sucks an’ my two-plus-two’s are about as basic as you can get. But I ain’t stupid, not no more. I know how to take stuff that I need an’ not get caught. I know how to get what I can’t take without bein’ caught. I can do whatever I got to do to keep myself goin’ an’ not worry ‘bout it till it’s done, if then. I guess you’d call that bein’ an animal, but if you’re treated like a dog, that’s what you get to be. Like a dog.
A dog.
Shit. That reminds me of this cousin of my mom’s, lived in Montana. Butte, maybe. He was a mean-assed SOB who wouldn’t do jack for anybody, not even his own family. An’ 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 an’ he whined about how broke he was or somethin’. Had a brand new Ford truck, I noticed, but he still whined about not havin’ any money. Asshole.
Anyway, I saw that dog gettin’ knocked around by one of his kids -- this nasty little fuck named George -- an’ it bit him. I laughed when I saw it; I mean, the little fuck deserved it. But when his asshole father found out what happened, he pulled out a pistol an’ shot the dog as it cowered in a corner. Then after he dropped us off at the bus station the next mornin’, he went off to get another one.
I asked my mom why he’d be allowed to do that, an’ she snapped, “What the fuck do you care? We got our own shit to worry about.”
I used to have nightmares about that dog. Till I finally caught on to what my mom was talkin’ about an’ started actin’ on it. Right about the time my mom decided she wanted to change her life. Too late for that, for me, though. But then I met Connie, an’ she’s the one who brought me back to humanity. For a little while, anyway.
I met her at this rave downtown. I was the promoter’s main connection for “X” -- ecstasy for those who ain’t payin’ attention -- an’ I was sellin’ off some extra tabs for a nice little profit in the mosh pit. I never did that crap, myself; it was too much fun watchin’ all the neon glow sticks an’ pacifiers swirlin’ in the darkness. Lots of slim sweaty boys an’ slick hot girls twistin’ ‘round an’ glidin’ into each other while some overpaid DJ dropped tunes. That promoter was a cheap bastard; he never had live bands. Besides, if I had gotten wasted it would’ve been way too easy to get into the rhythm of the night, an’ I’d probably have wound up givin’ the crap away to keep the joy goin’. An’ I might’ve missed seein’ her. Seein’ Connie standin’ stock still in the middle of all those fuckin’ gorgeous guys an’ girls. No glow stick. No pacifier. Just a bottle of water an’ little smile on her face as she watched ‘em dance. God, she looked hot.
I swung over to her, but she saw me comin’ an’ raised a finger at me. “Not for me, buddy; I gotta work, tomorrow.”
“Wasn’t gonna offer,” I said -- even though I really was, as a way of gettin’ t’ talk with her. “Just wanted to ask you to dance.”
She looked at me, real tight. “You’re straight.”
“In every way.”
“I meant you’re not flying.”
“An’ I meant in every way.”
She looked me over an’ nodded. I ain’t gonna be fake an’ modest, here; I knew I looked good. I wasn’t as built up as I am now, but I was done up okay. An’ I could see from her eyes she saw me as a one-nighter, someone over for a quickie. Which was fine with me.
So we danced an’ did the bullshit thing. She was workin’ on a cheap-assed indie flick in
God, I felt like a dumb fuck.
But I ain’t one, now. I’m not “educated.” My grammar sucks an’ my two-plus-two’s are about as basic as you can get. But I ain’t stupid, not no more. I know how to take stuff that I need an’ not get caught. I know how to get what I can’t take without bein’ caught. I can do whatever I got to do to keep myself goin’ an’ not worry ‘bout it till it’s done, if then. I guess you’d call that bein’ an animal, but if you’re treated like a dog, that’s what you get to be. Like a dog.
A dog.
Shit. That reminds me of this cousin of my mom’s, lived in Montana. Butte, maybe. He was a mean-assed SOB who wouldn’t do jack for anybody, not even his own family. An’ 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 an’ he whined about how broke he was or somethin’. Had a brand new Ford truck, I noticed, but he still whined about not havin’ any money. Asshole.
Anyway, I saw that dog gettin’ knocked around by one of his kids -- this nasty little fuck named George -- an’ it bit him. I laughed when I saw it; I mean, the little fuck deserved it. But when his asshole father found out what happened, he pulled out a pistol an’ shot the dog as it cowered in a corner. Then after he dropped us off at the bus station the next mornin’, he went off to get another one.
I asked my mom why he’d be allowed to do that, an’ she snapped, “What the fuck do you care? We got our own shit to worry about.”
I used to have nightmares about that dog. Till I finally caught on to what my mom was talkin’ about an’ started actin’ on it. Right about the time my mom decided she wanted to change her life. Too late for that, for me, though. But then I met Connie, an’ she’s the one who brought me back to humanity. For a little while, anyway.
I met her at this rave downtown. I was the promoter’s main connection for “X” -- ecstasy for those who ain’t payin’ attention -- an’ I was sellin’ off some extra tabs for a nice little profit in the mosh pit. I never did that crap, myself; it was too much fun watchin’ all the neon glow sticks an’ pacifiers swirlin’ in the darkness. Lots of slim sweaty boys an’ slick hot girls twistin’ ‘round an’ glidin’ into each other while some overpaid DJ dropped tunes. That promoter was a cheap bastard; he never had live bands. Besides, if I had gotten wasted it would’ve been way too easy to get into the rhythm of the night, an’ I’d probably have wound up givin’ the crap away to keep the joy goin’. An’ I might’ve missed seein’ her. Seein’ Connie standin’ stock still in the middle of all those fuckin’ gorgeous guys an’ girls. No glow stick. No pacifier. Just a bottle of water an’ little smile on her face as she watched ‘em dance. God, she looked hot.
I swung over to her, but she saw me comin’ an’ raised a finger at me. “Not for me, buddy; I gotta work, tomorrow.”
“Wasn’t gonna offer,” I said -- even though I really was, as a way of gettin’ t’ talk with her. “Just wanted to ask you to dance.”
She looked at me, real tight. “You’re straight.”
“In every way.”
“I meant you’re not flying.”
“An’ I meant in every way.”
She looked me over an’ nodded. I ain’t gonna be fake an’ modest, here; I knew I looked good. I wasn’t as built up as I am now, but I was done up okay. An’ I could see from her eyes she saw me as a one-nighter, someone over for a quickie. Which was fine with me.
So we danced an’ did the bullshit thing. She was workin’ on a cheap-assed indie flick in
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