Katherine’s Krush

“Boy, you ain’t a pussy, are ya?”  

I did not know how to answer his question. If I could rewind back to that moment I would’ve said, “Hell yeah! Your son sucks dick. Your son sucks dick.  Your son sucks dick. Your son sucks diiiiiiiiiick!” And I would’ve sucked my thumb for emphasis.  

The old man had disrespected me in my car, Katherine. How dare he? The man had already mocked Katherine, after I‘d asked him to refer to her by name. “Who ever heard of a man naming a car?” he said. 

I should’ve said, “Faggots do it all the time. That’s what I am. That’s what your son is—a fag-got! Got it?” 

My problem: I can never think of a cool comeback. But what I needed was more than just a verbal comeback. It would have been fitting had I gotten physical with him. I know the man. After I’d fessed up about being a faggot he would’ve said something like “Damn it, boy. You got to be kidding me?” The severity of the moment would’ve caused him to tilt his head down and look up and just over the black in his shades, to make eye contact with me.  

Then I would’ve put my hand on his left thigh while slowly working it down to his cock and winked at him as we were still making eye contact. “Daddy you’re mighty strong? Are you working out these days?” The old man would subsequently grab the beer sitting between his thighs. But not to drink it, just to move it as he readjusted himself in an attempt to shun my sexual advances. “Boy, you done gone crazy” is what he’d say as I continued to maneuver Katherine with one hand and put the moves on him with the other. He’d admire such concentration from his other two heterosexual sons. 

“Come on Daddy let me suck your dick. I’m a good dick sucker.”  I’d move my hand from his cock and suck my thumb again for emphasis, making sure to leave as much saliva on it as possible.  “I went down on this one guy while driving this very car. He was sitting where you are right now.”  

“Shut up boy! Shut up!”  

This would’ve pissed him off. Though it would’ve been the right thing to do considering what he’d said to me in Katherine that day.

I would’ve continued to pursue his cock by calling him Linwood in an effort to change the mood. By dropping the Daddy bit I’d become his equal. Show him that all that stands between us is a name… “Daddy.” The sperm he dropped in my Mama twenty-seven years ago don’t give him the right to diss me—it doesn’t give him the right to fuck me right here in my car. And her name is Katherine! 

After Katherine is pulled to the shoulder, I’d lock the doors, unzip, and say, “Linwood, I’m in the mood.” I wonder if he’d get a hard-on as we’d struggle for control of his cock. 

I’d rape him, making sure that I fucked him painstakingly. The only drawback would be that I couldn’t wet his egg. That I couldn’t father his kid and verbally abuse it. I’ve heard him disrespect faggots for years—in the same tone that white supremacist disrespect niggers—in the same tone that misogynists dis bitches.  

He detests faggots.