Congratulations on Getting Your Shit Pushed In!

You’re a curious young man who just moved to western rural Texas. You’re lonely and not sure of much in life, but you’re an open, trusting person so when John Tomlins, a kindly young man from your high school, invites you back to his house, you’ll take him up on his offer. What’s the harm, after all, in making a new friend?

When you arrive at his one-story ranch home, books still on your back, you’ll be struck by how still his house feels. Your house is always a bustle of activity, filled with siblings and pets and parents. There isn’t an hour of the day when you can be on your own. But Johnny’s house will be, by all indications, totally empty.

No parents, no brothers or sisters. Not even a cat. It’ll be strange and lifeless, like you’ve arrived at the end of the world. You’ll want to share this thought with him but you’ll think better of it. It could be construed as rude, and you don’t want to alienate the only person you’ve really spoken with in school.

He’ll lead you from room to room, starting in the kitchen, offering you juice. You’ll nod and accept it and he’ll laugh at the trace of southern drawl left over from your latest stint in Alabama. When he leads you to his room he’ll be asking you questions about school, about what you used to do.

Before long you’ll be in a rhythm, the one you know all too well from moving every three years for most of your life. You’ll recall the places you’ve seen and the things you’ve done in them, the ways that x-place is different from y-place. Halfway through talking about how friendly and weird everyone in Alabama is he’ll lean over and plant his lips on yours.

Most young men would freak out and start throwing punches to prove they’re not a sissy. But you’ll be a little flattered and very confused.

“Why’d you do that?” you’ll ask him, mind reeling from the feel of his lips against yours.

He’ll shrug. “Felt like it. Ain’t faggy or nothin’.”

You’ll want to tell him that that sort of thing is the very definition of faggy, but you won’t. Instead you’ll nod and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling and considering kissing him back.

You won’t get the chance. Before long John will be on you like gay flies on a pile of Tom Cruise’s shit. His tongue will be on your mouth, your pants will be off and before long you’ll have your head braced against a pillow as he awkwardly thrusts inside of you. It’ll hurt at first, but you’ll get used to it quickly. It won’t be John’s first time, even if it is yours.

You’ll try to figure out if you like it, but thinking will get harder and harder as the sound of blood in your ears gets louder and louder. You’ll wonder if this makes you gay as you feel him pressed against you, thrusting awkwardly, his hand gripped around the base of your penis, only moving when he remembers to against his exertions.

Congratulations on Getting Your Shit Pushed In!