I know it’s against the culture. I’m a bad boy. I’ve had enough time in my life to come to terms with that. And you can put your fucking weak ass ninety layers of soft leather masquerading as a flail away. I’m not into fake or real pain. Yup, I can take fifteen hits from a knotted cat o’nine tails without a wince, but pain isn’t erotic to me. Just a thing to be endured and moved past. So stop drooling, you bitch ass ho.

I’m sitting here, in the shitty ass back corner stall of this shitty ass craft store, with my cock in my hand. Just grinding it away. By “it,” I mean skin. No lube. Not spit. Not even enough summer evening sweat to slicken a disgusting handshake from a nervous interviewee.

Raw skin on skin is what I am talking about. Gripping and clasping. Not really stroking as much as scraping. Until blood starts to ooze from terrified skin cells. Until pus and flaking scabs intermix along the whorls of fingerprint grips. Until glans and veiny knots spew freely.

And, sure, I’m not thinking of anything forward thinking. My mind and libido are not on the culture and the hi-minded leaders of our people. Hell, it isn’t even on the grittiest of gays in back alley blowjob sessions of the most debased kind. That would at least have some element of history to it.

Nope. I’m stuck on that shit spray-tanned son of a bitch, referring to his father, on his knees before another objectively shitty human with that slow talking, sax playing, slick willy motherfucker ramming his cock deep into the throat of our more recent rapist, misogynist, shit talking fuckwad of a waste of what should have been a napkin filler.

Just picturing his orangeness, on his knees like a good little fuckboi, begging for that cock. Preening for that thick, gelatinous, deep Arkansas sweet cum to explode down his throat at any moment has me hard as a fucking rock.

I’m not proud of it.

And yes, I know that the “Bubba” in question has been stated to not be our 90s friend of Arsenio Hall. My fantasies don’t need the intrusion of reality. Just as they don’t desire the imposition of propriety. The unreality, the utter fucking wrongness of it all, those are the things that make it hot. Stop being judgy and let me rip the skin from my own dick in whatever means work for me. My genitalia, my choice, gawdamnit!

So, yeah. I’m scourging cells, layer upon layer, from spongy blood engorged turgid tissue to the idea of what is likely the worst human being I can imagine with his crusty ass dry and cracked lips wrapped around the cock of someone else pretty high on the list of shitty ass, self-important, likely-by-all-accounts-rapist pieces of shit. Old money men sucking off old money men. A literal life expression of the metaphorical extension of what our history has walked us up, step by step, to this point. The cycle of semen digested and returned to more forced semen.

And don’t give me that shitty photoshopped Doninsky bullshit along with it. It’s what keeps throwing me off my rhythm and keeping me from cumming. I’m already on anti-depressants that make a decent cum into a distant pipe dream of a puritanical flagellant. I don’t need you bringing a poor twenty-year-old kind into the mix. Someone who just wanted to serve democracy in the most selfless way possible. My girl was just doing the work most of us couldn’t conceive of doing, and for our own benefit. Comparing her selfless sacrifice of throat and what had been a very pretty dress to the floppy thrussy of a disgrace of an Orange Julius Caesar is just rude.

Fuck.

All of these asides aren’t helping me cum. And some asshole attendant of this shitty Northern Kentucky waiting room of activities done for leisure is banging on the bathroom door. Don’t make me say the name of the place. I’m not their advertising board to spread more hate. You know what I am talking about. This rude fucker is making it even more difficult.

You know what sucks more that tearing away at your own cock skin in a fruitless attempt to cum on the walls of the place that tries to make you and yours smears of empty red tissue on easily washable walls? Not being able to actually cum because you can’t fucking concentrate on the one singular image that gives your scarred and burned heart any semblance of joy because some other joykill fuckwad is pounding away at the door of the bathroom stall while you try to dryfuck your fingerprints to bloody stumps.

All the same, a little hard work never stopped me. Or a lot. When a man has a job set before him, regardless of what the job is, he finishes that fuckin job. And Imma rub this nob to the bare nerves and past their raw bloodied nubs until some semblance of my rotten yellow jizz dribbles, flecked with rivulets of congealing blood, over my knuckles.

A man has to have standards.