Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. by John Raptor Page A
Authors: John Raptor
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hard in the face. “You have a widdler, don’t you? You’re a man. Now quit bitching and start acting like one!”
The day Brady found the porno mag, I did what Gramma told me: I became one of the guys.
***
The guys were sitting near a tree, gathered around a moist mag that had been lying in the dewy grass (at least, I hope that’s why it was moist), out of sight from the teachers (there were three teachers: two grumpy bitches and a fat, mustached dickhead— my teacher). When I walked by (to go talk to Ashley and Madison about whatever), Brady called to me: “Hey faggot, get over here.”
Even though they treated me like shit, I was too nice to not hang out with them sometimes and be their punching bag. The abuse was ignored by the mustached fuckhead by relabeling “verbal abuse” as “they’re just busting your chops” and “physical abuse” as “rough housing.”
Boys will be boys.
But I obviously wasn’t one of the boys; I was their bitch. (Neil was the second bitch on the totem pole. The guys would rag on him—hit him in the balls, call him queer and faggot—and since I was bottom bitch, Neil would take his anger and humiliation and rage out on me.)
“You ever see one of these, faggot?” Brady held up the mag, and I felt myself stiffening when the image hit my eyes. A woman with her legs spread, touching her gaping labia.
“Wow, I think the faggot actually likes it?” one of the other numbskulls said.
On the next page, a woman bent over, revealing her ass and labia from behind.
I felt flush. I had never seen anything like it.
Naked women…right there. In front of me.
“That’s one hot bitch,” I said, trying to sound tough, cool, whatever the fuck.
The guys all laughed.
“Right on, Robbie. You do have a willie after all.”
I had never bonded with these boys before, but all the sudden, as we looked through the porno mag and scoped tits and ass and pussy, I was one of them.
It felt…good, in a way. To be accepted by these Neanderthals. But also, empty. I didn’t actually believe anything I was saying, and regretted saying it. Things like:
“I’d love to shove it up her ass.”
“Wish I could make that whore take it in the mouth.”
“I want to violate that cunt’s cunt.”
I was always shy (another weakness, according to Gramma), so the boys couldn’t stop laughing when they heard me (quiet Robbie) saying such vulgar things.
“You know what, Robbie? You’re alright,” Brady said.
They asked me why I hung out with girls so much if I was such a cool guy.
“I want to get some , duh. Why else would I hang out with bitches?”
“But the bitches here are fucking ugly,” Brady said. “All ones and twos.”
I stammered, froze. Didn’t know what to say. My face burned. Oh God. I was turning red like the bashful weak fuck I really was.
I couldn’t admit that I actually liked hanging out with the girls because they talked about stuff instead of kicking around balls and beating the shit out of each other like goddam animals.
That was weakness. That meant I was a cunt…I mean, a girl.
And girls were empathetic and nice, which was bad. I couldn’t be any of those things if I wanted to survive in this shithole world as a boy.
So I said: “Pussy is pussy. It’s all the same in the dark.”
Brady laughed.
I continued to hang out with the girls, under the guise that all I cared about was their pussy. And some of the other guys started hanging out with the girls too. And we acted different around the girls. We put on our nicest smiles and cleaned up our language and were real sweet on them.
But when it was just the boys, we’d trash talk them. Talk about how they were nothin’ but pussy, how they were fuckin’ bitches (nothing too original; that would require more than two brain cells to rub together). Brady bitched that he tried to kiss Abigail, but she refused to put out.
Brady called her a “retarded bitch” (I assume because she had dyslexia) and
The day Brady found the porno mag, I did what Gramma told me: I became one of the guys.
***
The guys were sitting near a tree, gathered around a moist mag that had been lying in the dewy grass (at least, I hope that’s why it was moist), out of sight from the teachers (there were three teachers: two grumpy bitches and a fat, mustached dickhead— my teacher). When I walked by (to go talk to Ashley and Madison about whatever), Brady called to me: “Hey faggot, get over here.”
Even though they treated me like shit, I was too nice to not hang out with them sometimes and be their punching bag. The abuse was ignored by the mustached fuckhead by relabeling “verbal abuse” as “they’re just busting your chops” and “physical abuse” as “rough housing.”
Boys will be boys.
But I obviously wasn’t one of the boys; I was their bitch. (Neil was the second bitch on the totem pole. The guys would rag on him—hit him in the balls, call him queer and faggot—and since I was bottom bitch, Neil would take his anger and humiliation and rage out on me.)
“You ever see one of these, faggot?” Brady held up the mag, and I felt myself stiffening when the image hit my eyes. A woman with her legs spread, touching her gaping labia.
“Wow, I think the faggot actually likes it?” one of the other numbskulls said.
On the next page, a woman bent over, revealing her ass and labia from behind.
I felt flush. I had never seen anything like it.
Naked women…right there. In front of me.
“That’s one hot bitch,” I said, trying to sound tough, cool, whatever the fuck.
The guys all laughed.
“Right on, Robbie. You do have a willie after all.”
I had never bonded with these boys before, but all the sudden, as we looked through the porno mag and scoped tits and ass and pussy, I was one of them.
It felt…good, in a way. To be accepted by these Neanderthals. But also, empty. I didn’t actually believe anything I was saying, and regretted saying it. Things like:
“I’d love to shove it up her ass.”
“Wish I could make that whore take it in the mouth.”
“I want to violate that cunt’s cunt.”
I was always shy (another weakness, according to Gramma), so the boys couldn’t stop laughing when they heard me (quiet Robbie) saying such vulgar things.
“You know what, Robbie? You’re alright,” Brady said.
They asked me why I hung out with girls so much if I was such a cool guy.
“I want to get some , duh. Why else would I hang out with bitches?”
“But the bitches here are fucking ugly,” Brady said. “All ones and twos.”
I stammered, froze. Didn’t know what to say. My face burned. Oh God. I was turning red like the bashful weak fuck I really was.
I couldn’t admit that I actually liked hanging out with the girls because they talked about stuff instead of kicking around balls and beating the shit out of each other like goddam animals.
That was weakness. That meant I was a cunt…I mean, a girl.
And girls were empathetic and nice, which was bad. I couldn’t be any of those things if I wanted to survive in this shithole world as a boy.
So I said: “Pussy is pussy. It’s all the same in the dark.”
Brady laughed.
I continued to hang out with the girls, under the guise that all I cared about was their pussy. And some of the other guys started hanging out with the girls too. And we acted different around the girls. We put on our nicest smiles and cleaned up our language and were real sweet on them.
But when it was just the boys, we’d trash talk them. Talk about how they were nothin’ but pussy, how they were fuckin’ bitches (nothing too original; that would require more than two brain cells to rub together). Brady bitched that he tried to kiss Abigail, but she refused to put out.
Brady called her a “retarded bitch” (I assume because she had dyslexia) and
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