Suck Stardom

I could turn you into such a star.

You dare wouldn't miss your mark with me.

Are you good with directions?

Will you do a nude scene?

Are you shaved?

How big are your nipples?

Will you let me slam a two-foot-long dildo endlessly into your tiny virgin bleeding asshole while you squeal like some fucking rat pig?

IT'S ESSENTIAL TO THE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. I SWEAR.

...dear...babe...honey...sweetheart...

See that deviant slash-cut-hole between your skinny thighs? That hole from hell. After we shave that ape bush of yours you will.

And then I'll spread it open and force all sorts of things up into you. Nothing will quite fit. We'll have to really shove to get it in. You'll bleed a bathtub full.

And you’ll be a star, babe! A real star!

Like Jennifer Love Hewitt or Paris Hilton . . . You love those rich stinking cunts, don't you?

I know you love to watch television. You never turn it off. You leave it on all day while you poke and bleed all over your pretty little self just like you are bleeding now.

I wish I could fuck the holes you make in your body. Picture that needle as my hairy smelly big red cock, and you'll hate it.

The one thing you do to forget, and you can't.

You'll need to vomit.

You'll choke and sputter and come just this close to blacking out. This close to dying. Your eyes will turn white and suddenly you won't be able to cry anymore. Your throat will clamp tight. Your skull will pound. And I'll be cumming into your veins and I won't let you die. My sweat. My sperm. And your blood all over your entire existence. Your blood will taste exactly like me.

DEAR. SWEETY. HONEY.

You can go home now.

Really. Get dressed and go home.

Go ahead. Get out.

Bleeding from every orifice in your body.

Stretch that slut-fuck-me skirt over your flabby cottage cheese ass you fucking junky whore . . .

Get back on that corner of North and Rockwell and parade up and down . . . back and forth . . .

And we'll do it all over again.

This is not the end.

Only the beginning.

Just think...this stuff...all this stuff that's happening to you...it's just that you keep ending up with me. For no other reason that I was available at the right time.

Your bloated sickly slut body was hardly conscious at that bar. I saw you with your drunk, glassy eyes. Nothing anyone could do would've helped you. You wanted to come home with me to my sperm stench house and let this happen.

No books on how to say no.

No videos about bad touching or boundaries or how to stay safe.

No Barbra Walters specials or TV documentaries with helpful phone numbers or neighborhood support groups.

You were born for this.

It’s more than bad luck.

It all comes down to this.

And all the fun you had.

All the warmth that closeted you.

And all the love and care you fell for.

IT ALL ADDS UP TO SOME TAINTED PERSONALITY THAT FITS PERFECTLY OVER THE SHAFT OF MY DICK.