Hyena (3 page)

One person answered. She was from Alaska with an extremely high voice. She called and said, “Hi, I’m from Alaska. My voice is high.”

We set up something for later that week. I show up at Starbucks to play backgammon with her. She rolls up riding a Rascal scooter. Turned out she was retarded. I beat her twice and left.

I went back on Craigslist. I thought maybe I should check out the Casual Encounters page, since the backgammon didn’t work out. I came across an ad from a woman looking to have rough casual sex on a biweekly basis. This might be fun. I’ve choked out chicks and smacked women around in the sack before, so I figured I could hack it.

I hit her up. She hit me back. We send pictures. In her photo she had on a camouflage army hat and rave gear circa 1999. Her face was average; she had large tits. I’ve fucked uglier chicks.

We arranged to meet at some dive bar in Pasadena.

I was at the bar drinking pineapple juice when she walked in. The picture she sent was from 1999. What entered was a 2010 plain-faced, overweight, matronly woman, in business slacks and a blouse. She looked like she managed an office somewhere. She pulled up to the bar. The dude next to me
looked at her, then looked at me, and laughed. I pretended like I didn’t see him.

We talked awhile; she told me she managed an office somewhere. She lived in the same apartment with her husband and boyfriend and that both men knew she was here meeting me and that we were supposed to fuck. She told me she had rape fantasies and a high IQ. She struck me as a woman who played Magic: The Gathering.

The conversation was cool but I wasn’t really attracted to her. I stayed for two drinks and excused myself to leave. She followed me to my car. I went to hug her goodbye; she rubbed my dick through my jeans and said, “So, you wanna take this to the next level?”

“What level is that?”

“We go back to your place and fuck.”

I’m hesitant. I say, “I don’t know. It’s late, I’m tired. I’m not really up for raping you tonight. Maybe another time, like next week or something.”

She squeezes my dick. “You don’t have to rape me, we can just have regular sex.”

My shit’s getting hard. I look at her. “No rape, just a quickie?”

She says, “Just a quickie.”

She sure is persistent. What if this is a setup? What if her boyfriend and husband are in another car and they’re gonna follow me to the crib and they’re gonna rob me? Rob my house while I’m fucking this broad. Knock me out and steal my kidney. But I do like the way she’s rubbing my dick through the
jeans and she does have some big-ass titties and she ain’t that ugly out here where it’s dark.

“What the hell, follow me.”

I take her the roundabout way, zigzagging through neighborhoods just in case we’re being followed, checking the rearview for extra headlights.

We get back to the crib, I got her on the couch. I got the lights turned down. I start kissing on her and she starts whimpering, “No no . . . don’t. No.”

I’m moving too fast, so I stop. She grabs me and starts kissing me again. A minute into it she starts with her “No, no, nos.” So I stop.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You keep like, crying and shit.”

“I’m just nervous.”

We start up again and she’s whimpering. This stop-go shit goes on for like five minutes and I’m kind of freaking out. I’m not really into teary orgasms, unless that’s what we’re going for.

But this is reminding me of when I was a teenager and I thought I was gonna catch a rape case. I pulled this black chick. She was fucking with some lame, born-again Christian but I got her to stay the night with me anyway. We’re messing around, making out, I ended up eating her out, cuz I’m white and that’s what we do. She’s gripping my head, she gets off. I’m at the edge of the bed wiping up and she’s like, “What just happened?!”

I say, “What do you mean what just happened?”

She says, “I woke up and I’m all wet on my legs—what did you do? Why are my panties off?!”

Woke up? We was just making out. When’d she fall asleep?

I look at this evil bitch; she’s fucking crazy. She knows damn well what we did and why her panties are off. She’s trying to act like I mouth-raped her.

That’s how you wanna play it? Fine.

I say, “You must’ve kicked your panties off in your sleep, because we didn’t do nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

I’m sitting there with all types of pussy on my face—my shit’s glistening like a glazed doughnut.

“I swear to God we didn’t do nothing. I pinky promise.”

And I spooned her ass to sleep.

This bitch felt bad about cheating on her man, so she was threatening some sexual assault shit to keep me quiet. After that, I made sure I got verbal consent from any chick I ever messed with before we did anything.

The Christian college girl hit me up on MySpace a couple years back. She’s in Vegas, a dancer now. She was wearing a bikini holding a broadsword in her profile pic. She wanted to link up again. I never hit her back.

So now I’m a little weirded out by the Craigslist lady telling me to stop every two seconds, fake crying and shit. I’m not really trying to deal with rape unless we agree on it and last time I checked, I told this chick I wasn’t raping her.

She’s sitting there whimpering on the couch. I say, “What
are you doing? I thought we were sposed to just fuck. Am I hurting you? Why are you crying? Maybe you should just go.”

I put my hand on her stomach, trying to be sweet, and it’s real hard and it’s poking out. I say, “What’s that?”

She lifts up her shirt; she’s wearing a girdle, but her stomach’s still protruding. She says, “I’m pregnant.”

I say, “How pregnant?”

“Six months.”

And I thought she was just fat. There goes my dick, getting hard again.

Sick bastard.

Pregnant pussy’s good pussy, cuz it’s all swollen like a baboon’s ass and extra wet and you can’t get her pregnant again. I whisper, “Go to my room.”

She does.

We strip, and start fucking. I’m fuckin’ her slow and easy like I’m in a Colt 45 commercial; she’s not into it at all. I try nice and slow doggie-style, nothing. Get on top. She rides me a minute, maybe. She hops off. We’re standing there next to the bed.

She’s like, “This isn’t working for me. I’m going to need you to rape me.”

“What about the baby? I don’t wanna hurt the baby.”

She says, “You’d have to kick me in the stomach to hurt the baby; don’t worry about the baby.”

I’m standing there in my bedroom buck naked, condom on my dick, staring at some naked pregnant stranger who wants me to rape her.

I grab her by her neck and slam her onto the bed, hop on top of her, and force myself inside her.

She’s screaming, “NoNoNo!!”

One hand’s on her throat, choking her; I’m smacking her with the right. “Shut up, bitch!!! Take this fuckin’ dick, you dumb whore!”

She makes a feeble attempt to bat at me. I pin her down, put my forearm in her throat, and lean all my weight into her.

She’s crying real tears. “No, no please!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

I jam my hand into her mouth to gag her. She’s gasping and gargling on my fist. She’s getting spit all over my hand. I take it out, wipe it on her face, then stuff it back in her mouth.

I tell her I’m gonna rape the shit out of her and send her home to her punk-ass boyfriend and bitch-ass husband when I’m through. This goes on for a while. At one point, I’m palming her face like a basketball, jerking her head all over the bed while she’s weakly swatting at me. The whole time I’m trying not to laugh. This shit is ridiculous.

I gotta cum but I don’t really know rape-sex etiquette. Do you just fuck real hard till you cum or do you hold off till she cums? I think as a rule, rapists are selfish lovers, but this isn’t like official rape.

I go for another five minutes and finally bust, hop up, and say, “Now get up, get dressed, and get the fuck out of my house.”

I’m sitting there on the couch, naked, drinking water out of a jelly jar, feeling awesome: like I just raped the shit out of this
pregnant bitch. It’s not what you do, it’s how you do it. I don’t care if you’re a janitor; just make sure you got the cleanest floors in town.

She comes out. I ask, “How was that?” already knowing the answer: great.

She says, “It was fine.”

I say, “What do you mean fine?”

“A little light, but I had fun anyway.”

And with that, she walks out the door, gets in her car, and drives back to her men.

WHEN I WAS IN THE
shower washing my butt, I felt a lump on my ass. I thought it was a tumor. I thought I was gonna die from ass cancer.

I’m picturing people falling out at my funeral. Wondering how many people’ll show. I remind myself to throw out the porn DVDs in the dresser and to clear the hard drive before I die, so my mom won’t have to see the shit I jerk off to. I’ll go back to Detroit to spend my last days there, maybe smoke some crack. My job’ll probably try to hold a memorial for me and fuck it up. By the time I’m out of the shower, I’ve come to terms with my death.

Went to the doctor that Thursday; turns out it’s hemorrhoids. Superbad hemorrhoids. My hemorrhoids got hemorrhoids. And now he’s got to cut me.

He explained to me exactly what was going on with my anus, but I really couldn’t follow cuz right before his explanation,
he raped my asshole with his fingers and cameras and metal rods.

The whole experience made me rethink throwing my finger up a chick’s asshole without warning mid-coitus. I probably won’t do that anymore.

I used to be reckless with that butt-hole shit. I tried to sodomize every single girl I smashed. Not because it felt great, mind you; it just feels okay. Pussy feels better and there’s some downsides to sodomy, like sometimes you end up with shit on your dick.

It’s just that if I was gonna fuck, I wanted my dick to hit every hole. So when I saw her months later at the mall with her new man and we were all smiling and nodding and making niceties, I’d be looking at her thinking, “I was up in your butt hole, fuckin’. Great to see you.” And then I’d be off to Marshalls to buy Hilfiger shirts on clearance.

I stopped trying to sodomize chicks when I stopped going to the mall for my clothes and chilled out with my anger issues. I mean, if she wants me to fuck her there, sure I will, that’s hot, whatever you want, I’m game. Even then, not all the time, cuz if I’m always putting it in her butt, what are we sposed to do on Valentine’s Day?

Speaking of sodomy, the doctor shoved all those things up my butt hole and then cut my ass and left me there in a diaper on the gurney. The irony is, these last few weeks, I’ve been wanting to get my hands on some Vicodin. Well, now I got it. Be careful what you wish for.

I’ve been on Vicodin these past three days. I keep taking it
so I won’t shit. I’m afraid to. Vicodin and tighty whities with a maxi-pad shoved in my ass crack, cuz I’m leaking blood.

My mom keeps calling me to see if I’m all right.

I am. I just walk funny and I’m getting used to the tighty whities smashing my balls. I tried to do the maxi-pad with some boxers and that shit fell out in the middle of the road, right next to some kids playing. I tried to kick it across the street, but it kept getting stuck to the pavement, so I just kept walking like it wasn’t mine.

Kev took me to the Dodgers game yesterday. The good seats. It was nice to sit out there in the sun, nodding off on opiates while the Cubs whooped the Dodgers’ asses. It was fun till some piece-of-shit Dodgers fan started talking shit to us.

We ain’t say nothing to this fucking dude and the motherfucker’s talking ’bout the “douche-bag Cub fans” in front of him. I’m not even from Chicago. My friends are. I’m waiting for them to say some shit, but they don’t. I turn around and it’s some day trader sitting with his hot wife and friends.

I tell him to chill out.

He says he was being funny.

I tell him he isn’t funny and to stop talking to us.

He starts talking about my accent; his eyes are wild like he’s gonna do something, talking to me like he knows karate or some shit.

I’m like, “Bruh, chill out and shut up talking to us.”

He’s like, “Brah brah brah. What the hell is a brah, brah? Why you talking like that, brah?”

“Cuz I’m from Detroit, bruh. Look, I’m not even a Cubs fan. I just don’t like you, so don’t say shit to us, okay?”

That’s the best I can come up with? Mr. Rude Jude, Mr. Get Paid to Talk Shit on
Jenny Jones
. All I can do is explain how my accent stems from my place of origin? I blame the Vicodin.

He keeps on talking and I’m staring him down like, “I’ma fuck you up.” But he knows I won’t, so he stays on me. Now I’m arguing with him and I’m not very good at it, but I can’t stop and my friends are telling me to chill.

He’s still calling us douche bags and calling me all types of wiggers and shit. He keeps on yapping, and I can’t shut him down. I’m getting owned by a frat boy at the Dodgers game, and it’s irritating the shit out of me.

The only thing left to do is punch him in the face, but let’s be real, I’m not a fighter. I’m worried about my glasses. I’m not about to start fighting, doped up on Vikes, wearing a maxi-pad, at a goddamn baseball game.

I try to get his wife to chill his ass out. “Can you please get your man? Ain’t you embarrassed?”

She says, “You should be embarrassed.”

This bitch.

Then I see my opening. What I see on her thighs and what she sees every day when she gets out of the shower . . . I see some cellulite on them fucking thighs. Now me, I like cellulite, it don’t bother me. But I know she hates it.

So I say something to him like, “Blah blah blah, look at
the scoreboard, loser, fuck you blah blah blah, with your chubby-ass wife.”

And his face breaks and I see it, so I keep going. “You need to stop rooting against us and start rooting against her eating all them hot dogs at the game cuz she’s getting fat, bruh.”

I found that soft spot. And now his homeboy jumps in like, “Whoa whoa, we don’t need to be talking about people’s wives.”