I live for it.
There is nothing in the world like it.
It is the ultimate sensation of power.
I dream about it when I sleep at night.
I wake up and it is all I think about.
And I drive myself to campus, after drinking my five dollar cup of seventy-five cent coffee.
I pull into the parking lot, listening to the same song I've listened to for the past 3 months on absurdly high volume on a stereo system which my parents paid astronomical sums to purchase and I cannot properly configure.
I pull into the parking lot and I see my opportunity, this moment I have been longing for.
I see him.
I see him there.
He is walking, his head hooded and slowly nodding to a riff I will never hear by a band I do not know.
He is walking.
He is alone.
I see him.
And then, then it happens.
I drive right by him.
My pupils spastically fluctuate.
My anus clenches and unclenches, rapidly dilating. Pulsing in anticipation, expressing my excitation.
I see him.
He does not see me.
And I do it.
I turn off my stero.
And I do it.
I rev the engine of my truck which my parents bought for me.
I rev it hard.
I fucking rev the shit out of it.
And it makes the noise of a tiger dying after mistakenly jumping off of a very jagged cliff.
The sound is unleashed.
He hears it, I know he hears it.
But he does not respond.
He must have heard it.
He must.
I roll down my window.
I yell, "Fag!" as loud as I can.
I have won.
I am right.
He wants me.
He wants my truck.
He is envious.
He must be.
Who wouldn't be.
And I pick up my girlfriend after her Intro to College Reading class.
And I take her home and fuck her gaping and ragged axe wound, its labia replete with dentata and mucus.
I fuck her hard. I fuck her fast.
I ejaculate in minutes.
I make the sound of a rusty cabinet hinge while I ejaculate my inadequate seed from my tiny penis.
When I ejaculate inside her unfertile womb I do not fantasize about men.
I do not close my eyes and think about AberCrombie & Fitch models frolicking erotically on sandy beaches.
Because I am not gay.
I do not love men.
I do not lust for cock.
My truck tells me so.
My truck tells me I am not gay.
My truck makes me a man.
Every time I rev its engine I reaffirm my heterosexuality.
I am not gay.
I love my truck.
My parents bought it for me.
I sell enough low quality drugs to afford it but they bought it for me anyways.
Because they love me.
And I love my truck.
I am cool.
I am not gay.
I love my truck.
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM (40,975)
Share
