Date: Wed, 6 Apr 2016 14:47:04 +0000 (UTC)
From: Skorpio <j_skorpio_2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Ghetto Gutpuncher (author, interr)

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Ghetto Gutpuncher,

by Skorpio


Mom named me Taurus because I was born in April, but most of my friends
just call me Bull. The story I am about to tell you took place back in the
day when I was a young blood with too much testosterone, running the
streets, always getting into trouble.

I've come a long way since then. Woke up one morning, and had what you
might call an epiphany. Decided to turn my life around. Studied business at
a community college, got a job with benefits and a pension, married a
Nubian goddess, sired three sons and a daughter. Church on Sunday. It's a
good life.

I never regretted the stupid shit I did before I got respectable and
settled down. Except maybe this one freaky thing that I did with a
faggot. All these years later, and I still can't get it out of my head.
Lately, I have even been dreaming about it. That's why I am writing this
down. I have to get it off my chest, put it behind me once and for all.

It all started with the Miller brothers, Caleb and Junebug. We were a
squad, although Caleb was twenty-five, and Junebug was twenty-one. I had
just turned eighteen. One sweltering Friday night during the dog days of
August they took me to a strip club on State Street called Maxima's.

I had passed this joint lots of times, but never been inside because I
could not afford it, and sticking dollars in g-strings wasn't my thing,
even if I had the money. Since the three of us were broke, I saw no point
in being there, but apparently Caleb had a plan. His schemes always seemed
to get us in trouble, but we never learned. Maybe this time would be
different.

The place was mobbed with brothers, black and brown, young and old. There
were two rooms, one with a long bar tended by sisters flashing tits for
tips, the other with a small stage where a plump Puerto Rican girl in a
pink gee-string was pole dancing to a Ricky Martin song: She bangs, she
bangs!

Caleb threaded his way through the crowd, looking left and right as if
searching for someone. He stopped, and with a sharp glance directed our
attention to the lone white dude sitting by the back wall, smoking a
cigarette. Whiteboys usually did not wander into this part of town unless
they were looking for drugs or prostitutes.

"I know that cracker," Caleb said. "Dylan's cool. He'll buy us drinks. Just
follow my lead."

When the whiteboy saw us, he greeted Caleb like they were old buddies. Me
and Junebug glanced at one another and we both shrugged. What was Caleb
getting us into now? Who was this ofay cat, and how exactly did Caleb know
him?

We sat down, got introduced, and like Caleb said, Dylan was good for a
round of drinks, whatever we wanted, and then a second round, and a
third. When babes in hot pink bikinis approached, he slipped us each a
bunch of singles under the table.

I tried to figure him out. Dylan was in his late twenties or mid thirties,
I couldn't tell. Whiteboys always seem older than they are. The cat had
short brown hair with blond tips, a diamond in his ear, and he smoked a
lot. Probably a gym rat by the size of his guns, especially since his
tee-shirt was a size too small.

But I wasn't impressed. Basically, he looked like a fruit. Not that I
thought he really was a fag. He just had that look, know what I mean? That
pouting thing some whiteboys do with their lips which shouts, "I wanna wrap
my mouth around your dick." I can't be the only brother who thinks that.

Anyway, this Dylan character couldn't be a cocksucker. Caleb would never be
buds with a queer. What would a fairy be doing in a strip dive like
Maxima's? There was a gay bar down the street, and probably lots more on
the white side of town. That's where this dude would be if he was a faggot,
hanging out with all his faggy friends.

Obviously, Dylan had bank to burn. That had to be the only reason Caleb
hung out with him. When Dylan got up to use the men's room, Caleb boasted,
"Didn't I tell y'all this cracker was cool?"

"Yeah, what's up with that?"

"He's just a cool white dude who likes to party and spend his money,"
answered Caleb.

Junebug smirked and rolled his eyes. I think he knew more than he was
willing to say.

"He's coming back," said Caleb. "Go with the flow, bro. You won't be
sorry."

By my third gin and tonic, I was checking out the action on stage. Two
topless chicks were sharing the brass pole, making out in every position
imaginable while their boobs dangled and bounced like big brown
water-filled balloons. Everyone was having a good time. Dylan kept buying
drinks and slipping us singles.

When the club closed, Caleb complained that the night was still young. As
if on cue, Dylan invited the three of us back to his crib to smoke some
weed. I wasn't gonna say no to that. And the Miller brothers, snickering
over something, were definitely down. When I asked what was so funny, it
was Junebug who urged: "Go with the flow."

A taxi sped us to a high-rise apartment building overlooking the
river. Where the rich white folks live. The only nigga I saw was the old
doorman, who greeted us with a sly smile which I would not understand until
sometime later.

Elevator to the twelfth floor, one of those deluxe apartments in the sky.
Leather sofa and armchairs, pillows, glass tables, large screen TV mounted
on the wall, fully-stocked liquor cabinet, stereo system. Balcony with a
spectacular view.

So neat and tidy I assumed Dylan had a girlfriend. Even the bathroom, which
I had to use as soon as we arrived, sparkled and smelled nice. Definitely a
woman's touch. This was not some bachelor pad.

Dylan passed around a few phat joints of some good shit and poured plenty
of booze. Junebug turned on the TV and channel-surfed, bouncing between
extreme kickboxing and an episode of Cheaters. We talked shit about sports
and chicks and our run-ins with the law, not that Dylan had much to
contribute.

Eventually Tanqueray and weed took their toll. My head was spinning about
the same time Dylan popped a porno flick into his DVD player at Caleb's
suggestion. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I remember some of it:
roughnecks pulling a train on a white chick with a jello ass and humongous
melons.

Must have dozed in and out. Last thing I saw before nodding off completely
was Dylan on his hands and knees, giving Caleb head while Junebug appeared
to be fucking Dylan in the ass. But I was so drowsy, it did not register
enough to surprise me.

Last I heard were Caleb's and Junebug's voices reverberating like echoes in
my mind:

"How's it taste, faggot?"

"Show me yo cunt, bitch!"

"Watch dem teeth!"

"Dis what you been wantin?"

"Choke on it!"

"Hell yahhhh what I'm talkin about."

"Suck that dick!

"Bull don't know what he missin!"

When I woke up, it was morning. Sunlight poured through the glass doors to
the balcony. I found myself stretched out on the sofa under an afghan. I
sat up, rubbed my eyes, yawned, and discovered my clothes folded neatly on
the coffee table. I was in my drawers.

"You're up," said Dylan, fully dressed, offering me a mug of coffee.

"Where's Caleb and Junebug?"

"They caught a cab about an hour ago. You were still asleep."

"Damn that gin hit me hard!"

"You knocked back quite a few, if I recall. Bull, you feel like getting
high, or is it still too early?"

"Spark it up!"

Dylan leaned in to offer me a shotgun. Felt funny having his face so close
to mine, him being a faggot and all, but what the fuck, I wasn't gonna kiss
him. And, yeah, I had it all figured out by now. The Miller bruhs used this
cracker like a cheap whore while I passed the fuck out. Dylan was queer
after all.

I sincerely hoped he didn't think I was gonna fuck him too, because I
didn't roll like that.

"Can I get you more coffee?" he asked.

I took a pull off the joint, and grunted something that meant yeah get me
some more coffee. Bitch.

I couldn't believe this shit, waking up in my drawers in some fag's fancy
crib. What if he touched me while I was sleeping? I lifted the waistband to
check. Probably not. And knowing the Millers, hell, they probably fucked
him silly right up until they bounced out the door.

Dylan had hot coffee for me in a flash. I think there was cinnamon or
something sprinkled in it. But it tasted good. He was smoking nervously
again. It didn't occur to me at the time maybe it was because he had a half
naked brother in his living room, but that's probably what it was.

"What do you usually do in the morning?" he asked.

Christ, was he ever gonna stop asking me questions?

"Pushups and crunches," I said. "Fifty, fifty."

"Let's do it."

Next thing you know, we were side by side pumping out fifty pushups. I
knocked out mine without skipping a beat. Dylan had to take a break to
catch his breath. We followed up with fifty crunches, arms across the
chest.

"That was great!" said Dylan, panting. "I should do this every morning."

That was never gonna happen. This guy was fairly strong, and showed some
definition, but he lacked stamina and drive. Soft at the core, if you know
what I mean. He had some ripped abs, but I wondered if they could take a
punch.

"Ready to go again?" I suggested, knowing what he would say.

"I don't think so," he wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Sweating too
much. Can I get you a towel?"

"I'm good."
z
What a girl. All those times I woke up on Caleb's couch, he never offered
me coffee or a towel. Never folded my clothes or tucked me in. Only girls
do shit like that. And faggots. I was still trying figure out them
out. Their very existence upset my understanding of the natural order.

Obviously, the fag wanted me to hang out, and since I didn't have to be
anywhere, why not? While he was in the kitchen frying up eggs, hash browns,
and pork roll, I hastily checked my pants pocket for the ten singles he
gave me at Maxima's to tip the skeezers. It was there. Wrapped around two
twenties.

Must have been the fag while I was sleeping. It was kind of hard to believe
last night when he paid for all our drinks and slipped us singles, but why
was he still giving me money? He must have seen that I pocketed the
Washingtons. I hoped he was not expecting anything in return, because that
would get ugly fast.

We smoked joints and watched TV. Cartoons, wrestling, music videos,
basketball, so many different cable channels I wanted to watch everything
at once. For lunch, Dylan fixed roast beef sandwiches washed down with
dark, imported beer. Fat joints never stopped coming. I really dug being
waited on hand and foot.

Figured the least I could do in return was not bother getting dressed. I
don't usually get dressed until I'm ready to go out, anyway. Besides, I
knew the queer loved seeing me in my drawers. He never took his eyes off
me. I could make him tilt his head just by lifting an arm to flash my hairy
pit. Made him light a cigarette when I scratched my balls.

He must have gotten a thrill taking off my clothes. Probably copped a feel
too. That was gonna cost him, I decided. In fact, whether the fag copped a
feel or not, he had the opportunity, and that was wrong too. I brooded for
awhile before coming up with a gambit.

"I don't like you snuck money in my pants pocket," I said to Dylan, as he
was bringing us more dark beers in cold bottles.

"I'm s-sorry, Bull," he mumbled, nervously. "I just thought..."

"I know what you thought. But I'm not some po' nigga needin charity. Next
time you wanna give me some money, just hand it to me, aiiight? None of
that sneaky shit."

"I understand," he nodded, reaching for another Newport.

"Don't get me wrong," I went on, "I like when you give me cash. If you gave
me cash right now, I would take it. Know what I'm sayin?"

"How much?"

"Give me a Jackson."

I know what you're thinking. Twenty doesn't sound like much. Keep reading,
because I wasn't done with this chump by a long shot.

He opened up his billfold, took out a twenty dollar bill, and handed it to
me.

"That was for undressing me last night."

"I wanted to make you comfortable," he protested.

"I understand that," I said, sternly. "That's why it only cost you
twenty. Touch me again without my permission, and it will cost you more
than twenty dollars. I will fucking beat you!"

The expression on his face was not what I expected. The punk should have
quivered in fear. Instead, he wore this silly smile, like he was daring me
to slug him. I probably should have, but I wasn't finished yet.

"I'm gonna axe a question, and I want an honest answer. Did you cop a feel
last night while I was out of it? Do not lie to me!"

Hesitating, he stammered, "K-kind of, by accident, my hand brushed against
you, but it wasn't on purpose, honest, I'm not lying!"

"Did you feel my johnson?"

"Maybe, I guess so, I mean, yes, a little."

He was puffing away like a chimney, and sweating like a pig. Needing
another towel soon. I liked intimidating him, making him nervous and
uncomfortable. He could have ended this at any point, but he was enjoying
it too.

"How did it feel?"

"It felt... big."

"It's very big," I stated, matter of factly. "I think you owe me for
touching my dick, don't you?"

He nodded silently, eyes round as saucers, fishing for another twenty. I
pocketed it, and held out my hand for more. The bitch was practically
drooling as he pulled out two more twenties.

"Want to watch a movie?" he suggested.

"We're not done yet," I said, taking a swig of beer. "You been eye-ballin
me all day, gettin pleasure from looking at my body, but what am I getting
in return?"

"I made you coffee, breakfast, lunch..." he started.

"Because I am your guest," I explained, breaking it down for him in the
plainest terms. "Lookin at me is different. Do you think you have a right
to stare at my body?"

"No," he said, softly.

"Give me twenty."

"Let's see now. Not counting the ten bucks you thought I was gonna give
away to strippers, there was forty from the tooth fairy, twenty for
undressing me, twenty for touching me, twenty for looking at me. How much
does that come to?"

"One hundred dollars."

"$100," I repeated. "See how easy that was, givin me money? You didn't have
to sneak it into my pocket. I don't like sneaky bitches. Now, what were you
saying about a movie?"

"I've got some porn you would like," Dylan offered, as if I was too dumb to
know what he was getting at.

"Not such a good idea," I shook my head. "Not unless you know some
bitches. You know any bitches? That shit gets me horny."

"I don't know any girls, but I could help you out."

"Like you did for Caleb and Junebug?"

"You know about that?"

"Look, I got nothin' against fags. What my boys do, that's on them. But, I
don't roll like that. So, no porn, got it? Don't even think about tryin to
get me horny. Give me another twenty for tryin to pull some shit like
that."

"Forget I brought it up," said Dylan, hastily producing another bill. "I've
got a better idea. Let's go shopping."

"Yeah, right," I snorted.

"I'm serious. My treat."

This cunt was fucking serious! Cutting to the chase, we caught a cab to the
mall where he bought me sneakers, jerseys, caps, shorts, all kinds of
gear. I wasn't about to tell the fag to stop, know what I'm saying? It was
like the Christmas I never had.

There was a sneaker salesman with a face like a cocksucker who was too busy
to help me find the size twelves that I was looking for, until Dylan spoke
to him, and then he couldn't do enough for me.

What pissed me off was Dylan took for granted he should be waited on, but
it didn't seem to bother him none that I wasn't getting the same
respect. Fuck white people and their sense of entitlement. That's what ran
through my mind. Fuck them all.

"Why you doing all this for me" I had to ask over dinner. Oh, yeah, he
bought me dinner too. An elegant Chinese restaurant with effeminate waiters
and a stunningly beautiful dragon lady showing us to our table by a
fountain. "Do you get off on givin brothers money and buyin us shit? Is
that your thing?"

"I feel like it's something I owe you."

"You owe me?"

He started to explain, but I cut him off. I didn't really care why he was
doing it. In fact, the sound of his whiny, fussy voice was really getting
on my nerves. I decided that the fag would look good in one of those ball
gags chicks wear in bondage mags.

After dinner, Dylan asked me what I wanted to do next, so we went to an
adult bookstore where he waited in the cab with the meter running while I
ran inside. I found what I was looking for, a red ball gag, along with the
latest Hustler and Black Booty Bonanza magazines, and paid for them with
the faggot's credit card.

The brother at the register held up the ball gag, and snorted: "Problem
with these things is the bitch can't suck no dick while she's wearin it."

"Not gettin it for no bitch, not exactly," I said. "Got a whiteboy outside
who won't shut the fuck up."

"He suckin your dick, bruh?"

"Hell, the cocksucker is beggin for it, but I don't mess with guys."

"It's just a blowjob, bruh. Mouth on dick, that's all. Don't make you no
fag. Tell ya what, tell your cracker to get his ass in here. He can suck my
motherfuckin dick, what do you say to that?"

"Sure, why not."

Fuck, get his ass in here. He can suck my dick!"

I told the fag to pay the cabbie, and come into the shop.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I'm gonna let you do your job, faggot."

While Dylan was sucking the store guy's dick, I smoked a blunt in the
parking lot and flipped through my skin mags. Page after page of titties
like melons and pussies like split pomegranates, getting my shit hard.
Maybe the porn shop guy, not to mention Caleb and Junebug, had the right
idea. I was getting seriously horny.

But I had a hunch that soon as I let the fag blow me, the gifts and cash
would come to a stop. Spending money was like foreplay to him.

It was late when we got back to his crib.

"Make yourself comfortable," he insisted. "Take off your new
sneakers. Relax. You can stay the night, you know."

"Does that mean I gots to go home tomorrow?"

"What? No! I didn't mean that. Bull, you can stay as long as you want. I
like having you around."

"Because you're hopin for somethin in return."

"No, no!" he squeaked. "It's not like that. I like you, Bull. It's fun
hanging out with you."

"Look, I know what you about, but nothin is gonna happen, aiiight? I don't
do that shit. I'm not like them other ones."

"I know. Really, I do. I understand. I just want to be friends. I'm not
interested in you that way."

"You ain't?"

As I said that, I deliberately peeled off my new throwback jersey and
tossed it to the floor. Scratched my washboard abs.

"You don't think I'm hot?"

"No, I mean yes... I mean, you're totally hot, of course you are..," he
babbled, "but I would never disrespect you...I just want to be your friend,
that's all. We can be friends."

"How am I gonna be friends with you?"

"You're right," he sighed.

"I know I'm right. See, in order to be friends, we would have to be
equals. You don't think we're equals, do you?"

"N-no," he stammered.

"I don't believe you."

"It's true! I'm not your equal. I know that! You're a man, a real man. I'm
just a..."

"Yeah, what are you?"

"I'm gay."

"Nah, you ain't gay. Ru Paul, he's gay. Frank Ocean, gay. But you're not
like them. You pick up cats in bars and buy them shit so you can suck some
dick and take it up the ass. What you are is a fucking faggot. That's all
you are, and I wanna hear you say it."

"I'm a faggot."

"A man can't be friends with a fucking faggot," I stated, shaking my
head. "I should probably leave."

"Don't go!" the faggot cried out.

"You want me to stay?"

"Please..."

I love playing this little game with him. The look of panic on his face was
priceless. Thinking I was gonna walk out of this sweet set up any time
soon. Time to remind him who was in charge.

"If I stay, are you gonna do whatever I say?"

"Anything!" he promised.

"Are you my slave?"

"Yes."

His eyes lit up when I called him a slave. That was what he wanted to hear
all along. He was loving the game as well.

"Aiiight, then I guess I'll spend the night," I decided, dropping to the
leather sofa. "Remove my sneakers, slave."

After Dylan unlaced my new Jordans and tugged them off along with my socks,
I shucked off my new camouflage cargo pants.

"Fold them for me, slave."

Deep down on some instinctive level, having an obedient fag for a slave was
starting to make a lot of sense.

"Yes, sir," said the faggot, neatly folding my clothes.

That's right, he called me "sir," and that sounded good.

My slave turned on the TV, and handed over the remote. When I put a
cigarette between my lips, he lit it for me. Then, he fixed cocktails, a
double Tanqueray and tonic for me, a Dewars and water for him. He showed me
a Cuban cigar box that opened to reveal three or four dozen perfectly
rolled white joints waiting to be sparked.

After awhile, I started feeling self conscious stripped down to my boxers,
what with the weed messing with my head, and the fag constantly scoping me
out. So, I told him to take off his shirt because that would make me feel
more comfortable. No homo, but I also wanted to get a better look at his
physique.

What I saw was not bad for a guy his age, ten or fifteen years my
senior. He looked like he stopped going to the gym about a year ago. Had a
decent midsection that could probably take a punch or two. But there was no
comparison between his body and mine.

Fag or no fag, he was a guy on some level, so I knew when he looked at me,
he had to be jealous. Imagine that, jealous and horny at the same fucking
time. Because I was the man he could never be and the one he could never
have. I almost felt sorry for him.

"Check this out!"

I jumped up and struck a front double bicep pose. My guns peaked at
seventeen inches. I always liked showing them off.

"You're so buff," Dylan gasped, slack-jawed as if he was gaping at the
Grand Canyon or the Pyramids. He was tall, but I still towered over him,
and my body was shredded.

"Take a good look," I said, getting my swagger on.

"You're fucking built, dude."

"Like my abs?" I tapped my washboard stomach.

"They're amazing."

Standing like Superman, I told my slave to make a fist and punch my tensed,
rock-hard six pack.

"Do it!" I urged. "This is how I keep in shape. Me and Calvin do this all
the time. Toughens your core! We call it the Ghetto Gut Punch."


Dylan steadied himself, balled his fist, and slugged my solar plexus.  I
barely felt it. Was that the best he could do? No man could be that weak.

"Harder!" I insisted. "You ain't gonna hurt me!"

He tried again, but there was no force, no strength.

"This isn't working," I said. "You punch like my sister!  Take your shirt
off. Let me show you what I'm talking about."

"I don't know about this," he hesitated.

"Put your hands behind your back. I'll go gentle."

I delivered a flurry of light jabs to his midsection. He tensed up, taking
a few punches before blocking my blows.

"Keep your hands behind your back!"

"I can't help it, Sir," he winced, apologetically.

"Got any rope?"

After binding his wrists behind his back, my fists went to work, pounding
away at his unprotected stomach until he crumpled once more to his knees.

Frustrated, I pulled him and up, and went at it, using him like a punching
bag. Bam! Bam! Bammm! The queer fell back to his knees again, gasping, when
I realized my dick was getting hard. Punching this bitch in the gut was
making me horny as fuck!

That's when Nature took over. Without thinking, I dropped my drawers,
letting my thick dick spring out. It hung in front of his wide, frightened
eyes. See, that was another reason my friends call me Bull. I'm hung like a
Black Angus steer, know what I'm saying?

I snatched the faggot by the hair and jerked him toward my crotch. A second
later, his warm, wet lips wrapped themselves around the swollen knob. He
started sucking like a champ with his hands still tied behind his back,
taking it inch by inch into his throat. I swore that I would never let a
faggot give me head, but what the fuck. No way was I gonna stop.

"Hell, yahhh," I growled. "Suck that black dick, motherfucker! Choke on
it!"

I clutched his head with both hands, and forced my choad as deep as it
could possibly go. Now I understood what Caleb and Junebug meant when they
claimed I didn't know what I was missing. It was nasty business messing
with a fag, but no different really than letting some skanky crack-whore go
down on me in an alley.

For maybe another ten or fifteen minutes I drilled his face, only slowing
down to hold back my nut. I did not want this to end, and by the look of
rapture on his face, the lucky faggot felt the same way too. Yeah, of
course he did. He loved that shit. That's what faggots are all about.

My balls felt like they were gonna burst. Suddenly, I saw stars like
fireworks, and with three or four final thrusts, I exploded in the
whiteboy's throat. He swallowed every drop!

As I came to my senses, I was filled with revulsion. All I wanted was to
get out of there. No more cash, no more head, nothing more mattered. I
needed to get back to the streets. It was over, I was done with him.

But not before I told the faggot that I never wanted to see his ass in a
straight club ever again. If I did, he was gonna get a beat down he would
never forget. Before I slammed the door behind me, he begged me to untie
his wrists.

"That's your problem, not mine, faggot!" I laughed.

And that was the end of it. It was over. I had money in my pocket, and my
nuts were drained. I needed to walk the streets, catch up with Caleb and
Junebug, and think about where my life was taking me. It was a turning
point.

I wrote this story hoping to exorcise my personal demons, to put it behind
me after all these years, but things don't always work out like you think.
Now I want to do it all again. I need to find another whiteboy to be my
bitch and punching bag. The Bull is gonna make a comeback!



THE END