Free How To Rape A Straight Guy by Kyle Michel Sullivan

Venice, some soft-porn thing for the European video market.  I got the hint that she’d watched some of the shootin’ an’ got horny from it.  I told her I was open to doin’ somethin’ like that.  She told me the pay sucked.  I told her I was workin’ at bein’ a contractor, do roofin’ repair an’ shit.  Which was bull an’ she knew it, but she didn’t give a fuck.  She took me home to her place an’ we found out just how perfect we were for each other, that night.  Holy shit, did we find out.  She had to go to work with maybe two hours sleep, but she went purrin’, lemme tell ya.
    I moved in with her two weeks later, an’ we got married two months after that.  An’ for three years, it was cool.  Shit, it was perfect.  She got herself out of the soft-porn crap an’ into some pretty damn good indie flicks.  “Things that’re being made by the mini-majors,” as she put it.  An’ me, I got into the paintin’ gig, doin’ houses an’ small buildin’s an’ workin’ on sets when Connie referred me.  An’ we fucked every night an’ loved it.  Loved it till I got busted for doin’ a buddy a favor.
    Guy named Terrence, who asked me to cart a couple bags of coke to a friend of his.  I’d done it before, so I figured no big deal.  Only Terrence’d been busted an’ was workin’ the cops to cut down on his time inside, an’ he was turnin’ over anybody an’ everybody he’d ever worked with, me included.  So I got grabbed with two kilos of coke in my backpack an’ was handed a sentence of eight to twenty for possession with intent to distribute.  The asshole.  I made sure word got into his mini-security facility that he was a skunk.  I hear his time inside was made wonderful by those who could do it to him, anytime.
    Shit, fuckin’ Terrence.  There’s another asswipe I’d like to take care of.  Not like I was gonna do with this bet; that fuck was too fuckin’ skanky for me to even think about it.
    An’ don’t start thinkin’ I’m a racist.  Me not wantin’ to fuck Terrence’s got nothin’ to do with his color; it’s got to do with the fact that he’s an ugly fuck an’ had some kind of prejudice against bathin’ more’n once a year.  I don’t care what race a guy is, so long as he looks decent an’ keeps himself clean.  An’ such.
    I mean, I once wondered what it’d be like to do my thing with a famous black actor, you’d know him I said his name, if he wound up inside.  He looked like he’d be fun an’ frisky.  Not that I’d even really thought of tryin’ t’ connect with him on the outside -- I’m not queer for man-sex, don’t y’know -- but he’s one of the few black guys I’ve seen who’s not just black, if that makes sense.  I mean, he’s just a guy, y’know?  A good-lookin’ guy, an’ I’m comfortable ‘round them for some weird reason.  Good-lookin’ girls I just wanna fuck.  Good-lookin’ guys, I wanna be pals.  Wanna be buds.  Tight buds, y’know?
    Even fuckin’ Anthony, as much as I hate the fucker, I -- shit, I gotta admit, I did want to be buds with him.  He wasn’t the Big Man On Campus; the football quarterback always got that job ‘cause, for some weird reason every one of ‘em looked like they should’ve been on a box of “Wheaties.”  But Anthony, as uptight an’ “proper” as he was, he played ball like it oughta be played -- easy an’ natural, like he was destined for the majors.  He actually made it to the big leagues for a few years, till he ruined his knee slidin’ into home, one game.  I think that’s why I let him con me into givin’ him that joint -- for a buck, which didn’t even cover its cost; that an’ I sort of wanted to see just how loose he’d get once he got stoned.
    Y’see, he reminded me of pictures I saw of the guy mom said was my old man.  Some hippie or yippie or whatever they were called at that time, passin’ through Wyomin’ on his way to Seattle.  In a VW