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I'm cringing while this big André-the-Giant-looking fucker slams deep and hard into my ass. He doesn't give a shit about how much it hurts. He doesn't give a shit about wearing a condom.
"Please," I say not just because it hurts but because I know he wants it to hurt and I'm hoping that if he sees he's got me squirming he'll chill the fuck out. I think about telling him to stop but I know he won't and besides, I haven't gotten the grabbage yet so I grit my teeth and say please again.
I look at his stupid face which I've been trying to avoid and he's got this smirk which just makes it easier for me to do what I'm gonna do.
“Yeah," he says, "I'm gettin' that boypussy," like he's Jeff Stryker or somebody. A string of gray drool hangs from his lip but he's so into it he doesn't notice. "I'm tearin' that boypussy up."
He starts shoving it in faster and I know he's gettin' close and I gotta act quick. Five seconds after he comes he'll be pulling his funky pants back on and shoving me out of the truck.
In the dark, I feel for his jeans. I have to twist a little bit which I guess he takes as me trying to get away from his dick because he grabs my ankles tighter and his smirk gets bigger. I think about the roll I saw him stuff in his pockets earlier and despite the pain, I get a little smirk myself.
"Work that ass and get that grabbage," just like my moms told me. My gay one, not my real one. The one who taught me how a skinny Puerto Rican boy with a sweet face and a big ass can go to any central Florida truck stop and make some serious bank.
Get fifty up front, let them fuck you. Then, when they're all panting and sweating, go for the front pocket. Truckers always keep their roll in the front never in their wallet. It fucks up their backs to be sitting too long on all that cash. When you feel them coming you slide the money out, throw on your pants, and get the hell out before their nuts even finish. They don't suspect shit because they already paid you.
Sometimes you dig through their pockets and the grabbage ain't worth shit: a scrap of paper, a snotty napkin, a five. That's when it sucks. You go home with a sore ass and nothing to show for it. But then there's nights like tonight when you hit pay dirt. Get your fingers around a fat roll like this fool's got.
The thing is, I'm so into finding the grabbage, I don't notice that my ass isn't aching anymore, don't hear the pop when he yanks his dick out. I'm so into getting my fingers around that roll that I don't feel or hear or see anything. I don't even remember he's there until I've got that bank in my hand. Then I hear this clicking sound and look up to see the cold black eye of a .38 revolver staring me down.
We're watching each other and I'm like in shock or some shit, so it takes me a second to realize that he's not holding my ankles anymore. I flip my butt up over my head, do a back roll and haul ass. He yells at me to stop; bring my ghetto ass back.
Then there's an explosion but I keep going, hands full of grabbage, fingers around that roll, knowing that a second explosion could stop me cold and feeling more alive than I've ever felt.
Mark Dennis is originally from Miami, Florida but now lives in Los Angeles where he gets an occasional acting job, publishes an occasional story, but spends most of his time buying and renovating old houses and hanging out at the gym.
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