How to Rape a Straight Guy
First Edition
Published by The Nazca Plains Corporation
Las Vegas, Nevada
2007
ISBN: 978-1-934625-35-4
Ebook: 978-1-61098-040-1
Published by
The Nazca Plains Corporation ®
4640 Paradise Rd, Suite 141
Las Vegas NV 89109-8000
© 2007 by The Nazca Plains Corporation. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in the United States of America.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
How to Rape a Straight Guy is a work of fiction created wholly by Kyle Michel Sullivan’s imagination. All characters are fictional and any resemblance to any persons living or deceased is purely by accident. No portion of this book reflects any real person or events.
Cover, Fleshblack Images
Art Director, Blake Stephens
Dedication
To John, A Republican closet case I once knew.
Acknowledgement
The GOP for radicalizing me. Seriously. Without their hostility, I’d still be writing gentle vignettes about people and life, or stupid screenplays about unimportant characters running around doing nothing, all truly meaningless. But now (self-aggrandizing music here) I plan to use my words to slice and dice the hypocrisy of the world…and have fun doing it.
How to Rape a Straight Guy
First Edition
Kyle Michel Sullivan
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
I did it on a bet. Yeah, I know, I know -- that’s a stupid-shit reason to do anything, but I was in the mood to do some damage so I figured I’d do it up right. ‘Course, it didn’t hurt -- or help -- that I was already pissed at my bitch of a wife from a back-an’-forth we’d had earlier in the day. An’ that I had a couple beers under my belt when the idea came up. Shit, more’n a couple. But still, all that is even more of a stupid-shit reason to do anything.
I guess it started out when the two faggots that were buyin’ those beers got to yammerin’ back an’ forth over whether or not any guy is capable of queer sex, no matter how straight he is. They were dumb enough to think I couldn’t see what they were up to -- usin’ this “argument” as a way to see if I was “available” for one of ‘em. Or both. An’ how much it’d cost. It’s so fuckin’ lame. Normally, I can blow that shit off; six years at Mid-State taught me how. But then they got to where they really were snipin’ at each other, so there was no way for me to ignore it all. Ignore what they were sayin’, I mean. Ignore what it got goin’ in my head.
Shit, that makes me sound crazy. I’m not. I swear. But I can see how somebody’d think I was from some of the crap I spew. Crap that sneaks past that lazy-assed censor in my brain. Sometimes I’ll pop off with any kind of shit you can imagine, just to get a rise out of somebody. Kind of a fun game. Sometimes. An’ maybe that’s what I was thinkin’ when I first popped off at Wayne. Nothin’ serious, here; just a bit of mind-fuck, y’know? I mean, it’s not like I started my day thinkin’ I needed to get even with the world one asshole at a time. “Pun intended,” as Lenny’d say. Or even that I really wanted to. But it was just the kind of day -- shit, the kind of world I was in -- that got me driftin’ into somethin’ really fuckin’ stupid.
But that’s how I get, every now an’ then. This hard-assed attitude builds inside me where I want to rip somethin’ apart -- books, clothes, laws, people, it don’t matter -- an’ I can’t set myself straight. Can’t see the reality of what’s happenin’. Can’t hear the warnin’ bells screamin’ in my head till after I’m done an’ it’s too late. So you see, this really wasn’t some snap decision I made after my fifth or sixth brew. It was a slow buildin’ ladder of steps that grew up after a few -- hell, more’n a few -- years of crap heaped on me that got topped off by a few hours of “chit-chat,” as Wayne’d call it.
The day started out with me gettin’ pissed at Connie. I mean, she can be a mean cunt when she wants to. Especially when she’s on the rag. Oh, she’s nice an’ sweet an’ cute an’ all when people are around. She’s tiny an’ blond, barely comes up to my chin -- somebody said she looks like a little bird, a blond sparrow in heels -- so no way was she gonna come across as bad-assed to anybody. But when she gets her mouth goin’? Shit, she could make a drill sergeant cry. Still that didn’t happen too much; most of the time we got along great. Most of the time.
But that day. That day, she started diggin’ at me soon as I got up, bitchin’ right an’ left about it bein’ almost five pm an’ shit, as if workin’ all night don’t mean I can sleep in the day. Now I built up a hide inside the walls so usually I just shrug it off. Or if I’m in a “fuck you” mood, I yell right back at her. Then we crank it up to master-blaster volume an’ have a good rip. Call each other every skanky name you can think of. An’ wind up in bed, fuckin’. An’ those could be some damn good fucks, believe me. Fucks that make you blind in one eye when you cum. Fucks where your
