When I was about 8 years old, my parents began depriving me of sex. Now I’m not stupid. I know many children never get to experience a sexual relationship with either of their parents, let alone both of them. This, of course, seemed crueler than anything my parents could have done to me – making children wait until the age of 13 or 14 to learn of this incredible way of connecting with others. And worst of all, providing such little guidance, making them learn from each other. Two people who don’t know how to do something would not seem to be well equipped to teach each other. Still, it seemed so harsh for my parents to cut me off, as they did. I knew it had something to do with this new church they were attending. My parents were becoming Catholic. I had heard the word before, from schoolmates whose parents also decided to become Catholic. Happenings inside the church seemed so foreign – stand-up, sit-down, eat a cracker, drink some grape juice. What was it all for? What was the point? It was important to my parents. I loved my parents, so it was important to me. At the behest of my father, I began volunteering in the church. I soon became and altar server, assisting the priest during certain parts of the service. I would arrive at church before service and leave, sometimes, well after. I found in father Bestia the love my parents had only recently begun withholding.
Flash forward 30 years, I was living in a fairly large city in Texas, with no income and no means of finding shelter. Still, life was good. I was blessed. I had a few women friends. They weren’t good for much other than a quick release. But that was all I really wanted them for anyway. I spent most of my time ogling the beautiful, young college girls who stayed in my city while attending the university. I had my favorite spots near campus. There was a restaurant not far from campus with an elevated floor. I liked to spend summer days laying on my back, looking up through the gaps in the stairs out front, taking mental photos of every hot, young pussy I caught a glimpse of. Thank God for mini-skirts.
I’d often hit on these voluptuous coeds. They rarely showed any interest, but that didn’t stop me from trying. They were all so gorgeous. As a result, I was indiscriminate. I often would try to strike up a conversation with girls as we passed on the sidewalk. On occasion, I would even hit on girls while their boyfriends walked along-side them. What did I care? Those little limp-wristed boys couldn’t do anything to me, a man. Sometimes I’d try to get a rise out of them. I especially liked fucking with interracial couples. On occasion I’d see a black boy with a black girl. But the black boys in my city seemed to prefer lighter-skinned girls. This was fine with me. I liked them of all colors and shapes. That just meant more black pussy for me.
The black boys gave the best shows of machismo before being pulled away by their fairer-skinned girls. But they were pansies like the rest of them. On one occasion, I went for the jugular. It was hilarious. I said to a young, white woman, who happened to be passing in the crosswalk with her black boyfriend in tow, “Hey baby! You wanna hook up?”. She said, in a rather offended tone, “Uuuh! This is my boyfriend!”. Then, without even thinking about it, I said, “That’s cool. He gets first pick of your holes. That leaves me with 2 more to choose from.” She held him from behind, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as he got loud and started threatening me. I smiled and listened as she dragged him away. After they were out of sight, I chuckled to myself, shook my head, and continued on my way. Yes, life was good. If it wasn’t for the 202 Metro bus pulling through that very same crosswalk at a speed approaching 40 miles per hour, life would still be good. Oh, fuck it. Life was fun while it lasted.