DIESEL

THE IRONY IS THIS STORY IS SO FUCKING TRUE, I MEAN EVERY SINGLE WORD FROM EVERY SINGLE ACT AND THEY ALWAYS TELLING ME TO MAKE IT STRUCTURED, BUT THAT ISN'T LIFE, THIS IS LIFE, HOW WE ARE SO NOT BOOKENDINGS, WE DON'T KNOW HOW WE ARE GOIGN TO END UP. SO IF YOU FEEL IT'S OUT OF CONTROL, THAT'S THE POINT

What is this story about?
i Don’t know.

A drop of diesel fuel begets the internal combustion. It just takes one sip to get the intransigent purring started. Its how the heat builds and burns fast-- taking over responsible thoughts. This exothermic reaction is the result of a fool with a trapped life. The boredom creates gases of high temperatures and pressures, which expands, acting directly to cause movement that molest pistons, lick rotors, until the entire engine itself is alive and racing. I feel as if I’m always hiding like a dusty sports car in a barnyard. Some days I am as egotistical as a Ferrari. Some days I am as seductive as a Jaguar. Some days I am as coy as a Mustang or as kinky like a bloody red Corvette. But all it takes is one drop. And then I’m not coming down until I’m empty. Until I’m exhausted. It aint for you to understand.
I probably fell in love with the idea of hell when I was eight years old. It was all those naked starved bodies sweating and desperate and piled on top of each other in lustful agony molesting rotting flesh. They looked so beautiful to my Baptist boy eyes. Maybe it was the stench of failure. You couldn’t sink any lower. I wanted to go. But it’s not my dick. It’s delaying the gratification. It’s the self torture. I’m always looking to see how far I will go for release. I’m always looking to see how much I’m looking for approval. I’m always looking to see how much I hate my mother. Damn, I’m bored.
Friday after work in my gap khakis, on the train, I hated my sobriety. Most people can’t see my eyes because I don’t connect, just manipulate, so I hate my sobriety, cause I hate hiding. I reached into my book bag and pulled out a Sprit bottle filled with vodka. I sipped cautiously. I worried that the others could smell the stench. After the fifth sip, the worry eased and I could feel the engine wanting to start. It cranked and coughed. I pressed the pedal releasing more fuel into the engine. I stopped sipping from the Sprite bottle and began gulfing. The engine started. Friday night from Sunday night was me trying to be what I thought my desperation for attention needed to be. I can be a such a fool for attention.

You want to hear a dirty story.
So I found myself at some leather bar. It was dark and intimidating. His name was Master G. I thought he could be something I wanted because I’m constantly searching for my death. He was aggressive and unnecessarily mean. He slapped a black collar with metal spikes around my neck. The collar was attached to a rope that was attached to his cockring. He wanted me to lick his boots. I smiled. I first needed to finish my cocktail. I got down on all fours and tasted the dirt on the tip of his black boots. He felt satisfied and commanded me to follow him to the bathroom. He made me lower myself to the position of the toilets. He took out his dick. He pissed in my face. The warm yellow stream shocked me. I felt myself pulling away and he grabbed me back by yanking the rope. He said he wanted to humiliate me-- that I had too much going on in my eyes. He said somebody needed to calm my ass down. “Why is it that everybody always trying to save me” I don’t want to be SAVED! I told him I couldn’t be humiliated. My name was Diesel not “boy.” The game was over. I ripped off his collar. He had messed up my shirt. I left the bar pissed. He didn’t understand the game. I wanted to come to life. I can’t explain it. It’s so sporadic. They always trying to define my insanity. But they never listen. They never listen.
Saturday night, they called last call, and he broke my fifteen minute rule. I knew he wasn’t fucking. Men tell you in the first fifteen minutes if it’s going to be the bathroom, their car, behind a dark building, my house, or his. But he was a liar. And I liked that about him, because he was so fucking easy to please for attention. .Men only lie because they have something to hide. I wanted to know his secrets. He, too damn sexy, tall and dark with eyes like a rat. He was young, younger than me, probably just got his voters registration card. I was high and drunk and feeling like I feel when I had too many drinks. I wanted something new. I wanted to be used and use. I wanted him to want me, maybe even love me, but then again, I didn’t give a fuck. All I could imagine was his sex, lust, sticky wetness and violence. I didn’t want a man but an animal. I was kissing him on his neck, massaging my fingers on his nipples, trying to get him to come with me. I was trying to get him to go to the bathroom, maybe behind some dark building. I just wanted to be on my knees. I just wanted to steal his soul. I just wanted to spread my legs. But he wasn’t listening. He just was a tease. He just wanted somebody to say he existed. Men let you know the first fifteen seconds if there is going to be fucking. I guess I wanted to play the game. I left the club alone. I passed out while the engine was still running.
Sunday morning, I awoke frustrated. My dick was still hard. The diesel fuel was blocking up my veins. I felt the gorge pulsating. I needed another drink. The season was summer but I hadn't seen the sun in days. The city was DC. But I wasn't looking for love. Anything but love. Boys like me were to have, not to hold. Boys like me only existed for the night.
Have I mention it was a full moon?
I thought I try again. Sunday night around midnight, I found myself once again at a somebody's bar sipping on my forth whisky and coke, feeling pretty and sexy in my green contacts, tight fitted camouflage G.I. Joe t-shirt and skin tight (size 30) Gap jeans. My yellow timberlands served as my masculinity. I had sex in my eyes. Maybe that's what lured him to me like cold hands to fire. Soulfully, he whispered in my ear "Are you man enough to spread your legs and let another man stick his warm tongue in that gorgeous ass of yours." I smiled coyly trying to appear shy as I slowly turned my head towards his burning words and found myself being penetrated by his eyes. In an effort to calm or prevent me from walking away, he touched my stomach as I looked him over and pondered his offer. He was playful, his look, dripping wet with Puerto Rican machismo and charisma. He was a Boriqua: a descent from the miscegenation of colonial Spaniards and African slaves. He was more sexy than cute, but not overly stated, but just enough presence to command attention. His creamy lemon ala bisque skin and almond eyes were his best selling points. I knew I could get lost in his eyes. His only flaw was that he was shorter than me. He was probably 5'9. I was six feet tall. I did like that he grabbed my cocktail free hand and audaciously shoved it down his baggy pants so that I could feel his hard, pulsating, thick and uncut Latino pride. I played shocked and smiled duplicitously as to say "you had me at eating my ass." When he licked his lips to give me a preview of his hunger for my musk, suddenly the room went quiet as the concupiscent blood quickly rushed from my head making me dizzy with anticipation. Needlessly to say, an hour later, he was making good on his indecent proposal.
At the beginning of Monday, just a little after one in the morning, I found my eager body at his apartment and we started slow. I felt my engine running low, but I was still Diesel. Another hit of weed and I pushed the pedal to the floor. I like for a man to undress me after he has undressed. I like to be fully clothed and have him stand there naked, his hard frustration penetrating the air, dripping with slimy tears, begging to be touched. I liked to see how much he wanted me. I liked to see how far he would go to get me. There was also something very virginal yet corrupt when one was fully clothed and the other was naked. I let him take off my shirt first. I whispered in his ear to go slow, because the worse part of me was a hopeless romantic and loved the production and illusion of intimacy. He leisurely slid my shirt over my head and temporary arrested me in darkness while the smell of my own musk and citrus cologne served as a quick aphrodisiac. I could feel my dick rise.
I was now shirtless, so he placed his warm hand on my neck and politely kissed my lips, then neck, before sliding down to my nipples. My nipples had always been the most sensitive part of my body. He pinched at my nipples like tweezers trying to get a splinter out of a sore finger. He pulled and tugged. And then he licked to ease the pain and pulled and tugged and tongued some more. I felt the electricity run down to my feet. I let myself relax to the bed. I slowly was becoming submissive. He ran his hand over my crotch and then grab for my hand to hold his. It was almost romantic. He unbuttoned my pants and slid the zipper down. I wasn't wearing any underwear. I arched my back inwardly so that he could place those warm masculine hands on my waist. He slid my jeans off. I loved it when a man finally stripped me of everything. I felt primal. I was ready for him to drown me with his wicked intentions. He kissed my lips again. Tongues and hands became drunk with heat and searched for even hotter hidden places. My dark sexy body laid twisting and moaning on his satin sheets as he devoured my sensitive manhole with his aggressive tongue. He spread the cheeks all the way open. I could feel my sphincter purring, pushing in and out against his prickly gin soaked tongue. The intense friction of him stroking my weak spot had me begging for him to fuck me. Instead, he decided to flip the script on me and flipped me over like a rag doll. He yanked my body to position himself to tower over me. The look in his sultry eyes told me that he wanted to feel the moisture of my steamy whiskey and coke mouth on his throbbing precumming dick. I obeyed. My mouth was salivating, dripping with spit as I sucked him. I pushed him all the way to the back of my throat. I liked how it made a man weak --feeling his dick all the way back to the tonsils. It’s how I knew I had him. It was like having his masculinity in my hands. He told me to tug on his balls firmly without any regard if I was hurting him or not. I spat his dick out. I then slapped his attentive dick hard that dripped with my spit to let him know who was in control. I slapped it again to make sure I had his attention. I tugged his nut sack. I tried to pull it to the floor. I then spanked his nuts. I watch his body twitch. He needed more pain. So I put his nuts in my mouth and begin to grind them softly with my teeth. I could feel him want to give in. I stroked his dick and bit down on his nuts. His knees were weakening and the storm in his eyes had silenced for rain. Just a couple of more seconds.
I thought I saw something, movement in the dark. I ignored it. I had his dick back in my mouth when the cops burst into the room with their supercilious flashlights, slicing through the darkness like swordsmen. I was so drunk and high that it hardly seemed real. Palsied and eyes widened like a gay deer trapped in the headlights, I still hadn't spit his dick out of my mouth despite how the white spotlights screamed in the darkness for recognition. For seconds during the initial silence, because at first the cops just watched and said nothing. I pondered deviously that they were maybe there to join in like some kinky black and blue party. When I reached out to touch the light was when they started yelling for us to get dress but keep our hands in the air. My engine had been thrown into a rude stop. My dick was no longer hard. My head went light and I fell gently like feathers to the bed. The cops asked for him by name. He had barely put on his underwear when they dragged him out of the bedroom into the living room. The door quickly shut behind them and I was left naked and alone. I didn't know what to do. I was too drunk and relaxed from the joint we smoke earlier to even care or pay attention to reality. So I just laid there. I didn't even put on my clothes. I wasn't even scared. After all, it wasn't my apartment. Finally, after thirty minutes, his roommate crept into the room like a sneaky house pet. Apparently, someone called the cops because of the music being too loud. My trick also had warrants so the cops took him to jail. The roommate touched my thigh after telling me the news, smiling and pleading that I could still stay a little longer if I didn't have anywhere to go. I felt conflicted. The roommate wasn't nearly as cute or masculine. He was actually the opposite, fat and effeminate. Out of courtesy, I asked to see his dick. Again, he was the opposite. I decided to leave. I figured the night and I were still young and hot, and I also had a fifteen block walk home, so anything better could happen.
I began the search from my clothes. Did I mention it was a full moon?
Early Monday morning around four, I found myself staggering home. After my ordeal with my trick getting arrested and having to almost settle for tacky leftovers, the fifteen block walk home was once again insufferable. It didn't help that I was still high. The fucked up part was I still hadn't nutted. I still hadn’t gotten my release. The boredom hadn’t silenced. I knew I didn't have enough money for the bathhouse. I figured I could surprise a fuck buddy of mine who lived in the neighborhood, but figured he was probably fucking someone else. The thought of a threesome got my blood pumping again. But before I could think over the decision rationally, I saw something again in the dark. It was like a flickering of a headlight. A dark figure across the street flicked a mirror toward the streetlight and was waving at me. It was four o’clock in the morning and usually I would ignore such a thing, but like I said, I was still horny, drunk and high and suddenly wanted to know what the dark figured wanted with me. I cautiously crossed the street looking both ways. As I got closer, the dark figured motion for me to follow him and I did. I followed him behind the National Church of Christ and away from the traffic of the street. Once we were behind the church, the dark figure pulled down his pants and started shaking his dick at me. I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or run. Suddenly I felt outer-body. I felt as if I was watching myself from a distance, like a movie, just waiting to see what was going to happen next. In the light, the dark figure wasn’t so opaque anymore. The church lights painted his face kind and attractive. Or maybe it was the liquor and weed. He seemed out of place. Maybe it was the glasses that gave him an honest and sincere face or was it his Best Buy work uniform so neatly pressed and immaculate. He just didn’t look like the type of person to lure strangers behind churches to shake his dick at them. As I looked him over, I concluded that he had to be in his mid to late thirties at least. I imagined him with a wife and a kid somewhere. I couldn’t help but think to myself why he had flagged me down. I wondered if I looked like that type of person who'd follow him. Was it my tight jeans? Was it my intoxicated staggering walk? Was it that because I looked easy? I didn’t care. I was bored
I didn’t run. It turned out that I was the type of person to follow strangers behind dark buildings at four o’clock in the morning. I stood there frozen watching him shake his dick at me. I didn’t know what to do. I had to admit to myself that it did look tempting. I liked what I saw. He was big. Really big. At least ten and half inches and thick. And the night and I were still young. I was also drunk and high. The moon was still full and no one had to know but the wind and me. I moved closer. I touched the shaking dick. I liked how the weight of it felt in my hands. I took deep breaths and tried to forget everything. I tried to erase my mind of the possibility of regret. As I argued with myself to determine if I wanted to stay or run, I felt his dick get hard in my hands. The engine started again. Once again, I could feel the salacious blood rush from my head and it left me dizzy. It was the pull of relentless lust and it bullied to get what it wanted. I felt out of control. I couldn’t say no. I pulled his dick one more time, to make sure nothing was leaking before I decided to fall to my knees and worship. I felt satisfied and so it began. I had his dick in my mouth when he lit up his crack pipe. The glass cylinder became ablaze with a howling and condemning blazing white smoke. He inhaled. It was bad enough that I allowed my pretty self to be lured by the big bad wolf behind somebody’s church for some sodomite fun, but the crack smoking just made it kinky. I felt my boredom stand attention, it wanted some. It wanted to feel his high. But I refused. I had enough problems. I stopped sucking his dick. I reached into my pocket for a half of joint I had left. I lit up. We were just two horny addicts who bumped into each other in the late night. Maybe he felt just out control as I did? Behind the church I allowed him to pull my tight jeans completely off and bend me over to eat my ass. He lit his pipe again and instructed me to play with my ass. He told me he wanted to fuck me. He said he had condoms. Who would've figured it, a crack addict who carried condoms? He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those packets from “Us helping us.” He opened the small tube of lube proceeding to fill up my hot tight hole. He reached for his crack pipe again and took another long hit. The stench was like burning cotton candy. The air became still, lights brighter and I could feel my heartbeat race in my veins. I had reached my intoxicated Mecca. Pressed against the brick wall, he inserted himself inside of me. Finally, my release.
There’s nothing like a nut to put reality back into perspective. With my fresh spilled sin on the church ground and sun rising too quickly, I felt shaken by the Holy Ghost and had to get the hell out of Babylon. I couldn’t find my clothes fast enough and run.
Speeding back to earth, my walk home was a mixture of shame, panic and exhilaration. It was almost six o’clock in the morning and I had to be at work at eight. I figured I would take some Tylenol, drink a gallon of water and eat a peanut butter sandwich before bed. I only needed an hour of sleep. Speeding back to earth, I started hating my life again. The fuel had run out. I was no longer Diesel. I was going to be just another bored face on the nine o’clock metro heading to work like a zombie. I was just a sports car out of gas, pushed back to his prison. I was back under the dusty cover waiting for another uninhibited soul to discover me as I anxiously waited for my next drop of fuel. It only took one drop to get the madness started again. The thing i always try to be so normal. I''ve always tried to be so undetected which is what i hate most. And every sunrise i dream of nights. i so hate my mother. i so hate that my intentions aren't true. I hate this world. How will I surve being such a freak who only people see his alter ego. Can you see me? That's the story.