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Authors: Sullivan, Kyle Michel

How to rape a straight guy

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How to Rape a Straight Guy




First Edition


Published by The Nazca Plains Corporation

Las Vegas, Nevada




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.


How to Rape a Straight Guyis a work of fiction created wholly byKyle Michel Sullivan’simagination.  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



To John, A Republican closet case I once knew.



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




Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight


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 nails dig so deep, they draw blood.  Fucks where you wet the sheets with your sweat, even on a cold winter night.  I think sometimes she got into a rip just to get started towards one of those fucks, an’ if that was the case, I could get one goin’ just as often as she could.  But sometimes...sometimes all I saw was that stinkin’ one bedroom rat-trap we had in Hollywood an’ the crappy furniture dressed to look new an’ the never-endin’ boxes of Top Ramen we had to eat instead of real food, an’ I just couldn’t get up for it an’ she’d get t’ be too fuckin’ much an’...shit, I’d have to bust out an’ walk it off or lose it an’ turn to my fists.

‘Course, I know better than to hit her, now.  Last time I did, I almost lost my parole.  She had to threaten to take ‘em to court or somethin’ to make my P-O back off.  He’d come by the rat trap to check up on me an’ he saw she had a split lip an’ he went all ape-shit on me till Connie slammed in.

“I fuckin’ had a couple of fuckin’ beers an’ fuckin’ fell out of my fuckin’ car!” she screamed at the asshole.  “You got a fuckin’ problem with it?”  One of the few times she used her mouth -- an’ attitude -- for somethin’ good.  Man, she knew how to make morons like him listen, even when they’re tryin’ to hand out some shit.

Now understand, ten years of marriage -- well, four really, taking Mid-State into account -- gets you to where you know the bullshit behind the voice an’ can usually figure out what it is they’re really pissed about.  An’ deep down I knew that most of the time with Connie she was really rantin’ about some “I’m-The-Artist” director or the usual five-second TV starlet, not about me.  She worked on movies as a clothes chick, no, “costumer”, that’s it.  But this time I just wasn’t hearin’ anything but her crap, for some reason, so as soon as she got onto the bitch wagon, I could tell where it was headed an’ busted out to grab a brew.

Problem was, I left without any cash.  Like I had so much.  People really ain’t so interested in hirin’ barely educated ex-cons for those six-figure jobs you hear so much about.  So I was cleanin’ fuckin’ offices after hours for a dyke an’ her pussy in a couple downtown office buildin’s for about a buck more than minimum wage.  An’ that wasn’t every day; just when they had a big job.  An’ then they paid me under the table.  Meanin’ no taxes taken out.  No benefits.  No nothin’.  I didn’t have a job lined up for that night an’ on top of it, I’d only worked five days in two weeks.  Really makes you want to keep on the straight an’ narrow, as this ass-wipe of a priest said to me on my way out of County, once.  Like he knew dick about how the real world worked.  As I finally figured out.

Not that it mattered -- me not havin’ the cash, I mean.  I knew how to get a beer or two without payin’.  I was still on this side thirty, sort of blond an’ smooth skinned.  Well, except for some pimple scars along my chin.  But even those made me look younger.  An’ I got a nice dick.  Not huge like a horse, but big enough an’ thick an’ cut, just like the rest of me.  I keep myself in shape, an’ I do mean top shape.  My gym’s my only real money taker -- after rent an’ food -- ‘cause if I ever go back inside, it’s the best way of lettin’ ‘em know straight off I can’t be punked out.  Not easy, anyway.  ‘Course, I got a week in solitary my first day in Mid-state ‘cause some dumb fuck of a Nazi warrior an’ his scum decided I was gonna be their bitch.  Only reason I kept ‘em outside of me was ‘cause I near ripped one of the Nazi’s ears off with my bare hands.  That added to the rep I already sort-of had, so the fuckers left me alone after that, lemme tell you.

So not to brag, but all I gotta do is a few pushups, tuck my shirt in tight, hit Queer Town an’ let my muscles do the talkin’.  An’ if I gotta put up with a few pinches an’ grabs in exchange for the quality brew, that’s okay.  Sometimes I’ll even let one of ‘em suck me off for a cash outlay.  Makes them happy, gets my mind off Connie’s crap, an’ takes my rocks off in a way that don’t mean nothin’.  I mean, once you been in jail a few years, you know a mouth’s a mouth, don’t matter whose it is.

So there I was in this skanky little fag joint in happy hour lettin’ this one fat-assed faggot “ply me with alcohol” in the hopes I’ll get too drunk to push his hand away when he puts it on my crotch.  His problem is, he don’t know how much I can drink.  Not that I’m a drunk or anything.  I lived without it in Mid-state; didn’t even think about it.  But this queer don’t know that, so he’s real easy to string along.  I’m even thinkin’ I’ll get a hundred extra since he wants my dick so bad.

Anyway, the fat-assed faggot’s name is Wayne.  Of course.  Half the guys I met in my life named Wayne were queer.  Like it’s a necessary part of being called that or somethin’.  The one thing my mom did right was name me Curt.  It’s a real name.  A guy’s name.  Shit, it’s a whole attitude.  Short.  Sharp.  To the point.  No bullshit.  Yeah, that’s me.  Cut the crap an’ get to reality.

But back to Wayne.  What can you fuckin’ say about Wayne?  Yeah, he’s fat-assed, but it’s not like he’s a pig or freak or anything.  He’s just...thick.  An’ lazy-lookin’.  He’s got that black an’ white hair -- “salt an’ pepper,” that’s it -- an’ he’s always lookin’ at you sidewise, like he’s not really lookin’ even though you know he is.  Which is kind of creepy, y’know?  My feelin’ was if he’d just take care of himself -- like run or swim or do somethin’ besides sit in a bar an’ try to pick up guys to buy -- he wouldn’t have to sit in a bar to pick up guys to buy.  Guess that’s what makes what happened kind of sad.  No, stupid.  Just fuckin’ stupid.

Anyhow, on the other side of me was this skinny little faggot named Lenny.  Well, not so much skinny as just plain small.  Like that blond-haired guy on that TV show, a couple years back -- what’s it called?  I had to watch it in Mid-State ‘cause one of the guards had the hots for one of the girls in it.  Some Italian chick who I gotta admit had a nice rack an’ great mouth.  Anyway, Lenny -- if he’d just pump up, a little, an’ add a few pounds, he’d come across a lot better’n he did.

Hey.  Listen at me.  Thinkin’ up ways guys can make themselves into better shape.  That’s what trainers do, ain’t it?  Maybe I should’ve been one of them.  Show scrawny little guys how to get big an’ feel better ‘bout themselves, an’ all that “bullshit” bullshit so they could go out an’ pick up anybody they wanted.  Make a hundred bucks an hour, too, on top of workin’ out.  Hmph, I’d never thought about that, before.  But do you need a license or trainin’ or...?  Or...

Aw, shit, listen at me.  Still full of crap.  What a dumbass.  I keep forgettin’ I ain’t the kind of guy for dreams like that.  They always crash an’ burn around me.  Always.

Shit, where was I?  Oh, yeah -- Lenny an’ Wayne.  They were tryin’ this double-team shit on me.  Flankin’ me an’ keepin’ the beer comin’ like they’re gonna drop a “roofie” or some “viagra” on me or some dumb shit like that an’ drag me home or out back or to their car to have some fun.  Dumb fucks.

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