The deadbolt clunked home with that solid metallic thunk Jonah always loved—the sound of the whole goddamn world being told to get fucked for the night. His shoulders were a roadmap of grease and sweat, the cotton of his work shirt glued between his shoulder blades like some second skin he couldn’t peel off fast enough. The boy clocked out, gave a chin-nod to Mike the shift manager who didn’t give a single shit, and stepped out into the Lubbock furnace. The Texas sun in June was always a real bitch, baking the asphalt outside Monty’s Auto until the whole bay reeked of melted tar and transmission fluid.
He needed to blow off steam, and he knew exactly how.
He grabbed his phone and started driving back to his apartment, thumb-scrolling through contacts until he landed on the one labeled “CUNT #4.”
my place in 20.
Three words. That’s all it took. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and lit a cigarette. The usual ‘ding’ came, but he didn’t bother checking. That dumb bitch’s reply was always ‘yes,’ no fucking exceptions.
His apartment complex squatted on the edge of town, two stories of beige stucco and pure regret. The parking lot was half-empty, cracked asphalt sprouting weeds that looked tougher than the losers living there. He took the stairs two at a time because the elevator smelled like cat piss and bad decisions.
That’s when he heard it.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The bass was so heavy it vibrated the drywall in the hallway. Some kind of electronic shit, not even real music, just a repetitive beat that sounded like a washing machine fucking another washing machine. And underneath it, voices. Laughing. High-pitched. The kind of laugh that made his teeth grind.
Felix’s door was propped open with a brick.
Jonah didn’t look inside. He didn’t have to. He knew what was in there. A bunch of fags, sipping their fruity drinks, dancing to their fag music, probably feeling each other up when they thought nobody was watching. The thought turned his stomach.
Felix himself was standing in the doorway, wearing a shirt that was too fucking tight and too fucking bright. Lavender. Who the hell wears lavender?
“Jonah!” The fag beamed at him like he was some long-lost brother. “Hey, neighbor! We’re having a little get-together tonight. You should totally come by. There’s plenty of—”
“Not interested.”
“Oh, come onnn,” Felix drawled, that lisp making Jonah’s skin crawl. “You never come to my parties. I promise we don’t bite.” He actually fucking winked.
Jonah was already jamming his key into his own lock. “I said no.”
“Well, if you change your mind, the door’s open. Literally. It’s propped open. With a brick.”
The boy slammed his door shut on that faggy voice.
His apartment wasn’t much to look at. It was small, and he didn’t exactly care about… well, anything. Dishes crusted in the sink, pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, a fine layer of dust on everything. The only thing he kept clean was his bong. Priorities.
He walked straight to the mattress sitting directly on the floor—box springs were for pussies who gave a shit—and peeled off his work t-shirt. The fabric came away with a wet, peeling sound. His chest was pale and hairless, ribs visible under the skin like the frame of something built for pure utility. Lean. Mean. The kind of body that had never seen a gym but had spent years wrestling engine blocks into submission.
The twenty-one-year-old’s face stopped just short of pretty. A strong jaw with a slight cleft in the chin, a straight nose that had miraculously never been broken despite countless fights, and a mouth that looked almost soft when it was relaxed—which it never was. His fresh buzzcut, dark stubble on his scalp blending into the shadow along his jaw, made him look cleaner than he had any right to. Regular features. Almost handsome, if you didn’t know what lived behind those eyes.
But his eyes gave it all away. Bright green, set under brows that seemed permanently lowered, they held an expression that screamed: I will fuck you up.
A few minutes later, the knock came. Tanya wasn’t much in the face—kind of horsey, teeth a little too big—but she had a body that knew how to take a beating, and that was what mattered. She’d been his regular for about six months now. No strings, no bullshit, just a cunt to empty his balls into whenever the need hit.
“Hey, baby,” she breathed when he opened the door, her hands already going for his belt buckle. She stood there in cutoffs so short the white of her front pockets hung below the denim. A thin tank top, no bra—he could see that immediately, the way the fabric clung to her tits and outlined her nipples.
“Shut up and get inside. Took your fucking time,” he grunted.
“Traffic was—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about traffic.”
He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her inside. The door slammed behind them. He didn’t kiss her. He never kissed her. Kissing was for people who gave a shit. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of the back of her neck and shoved her toward the bedroom. She stumbled, caught herself on the doorframe, and let out that breathy little laugh she always did when she knew exactly what was coming.
The bedroom was dark except for the orange streetlight bleeding through the blinds. The music from next door was louder in here, the shared wall vibrating with every beat. He could hear them now, the fags, singing along to some homo anthem.
“God, they’re so fucking loud tonight,” he spat, pushing Tanya down onto the bed.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind it,” she said, already pulling her shirt over her head.
“Did I ask what you mind?” He was on top of her now, one knee driving between her legs, his hand finding her throat. “Did I fucking ask?”
She shook her head, her eyes going that familiar glassy haze they always did when he got rough.
“Then shut your fucking mouth unless I’m sticking my dick inside it.”
Her tits were out now, full and pale and heavy, nipples already hard and puckered in the cool draft from the apartment’s single wheezing AC unit. He yanked her cutoffs down her legs and shoved his hand between her thighs. She was wet. She was always wet. That was the one thing about Tanya—she didn’t need foreplay. She just needed a real man to treat her like the garbage she was, and her cunt responded like clockwork. And Jonah was a goddamn champion at that.
“What are you?” he demanded, giving one of her tits a sharp slap.
“A dumb whore…” she moaned, the sound filthy and eager.
“Damn right! What else?”
“I’m a cum toilet for real boys to use…”
“Fucking-A right, bitch!” He slapped her tit again, the sound cracking in the small room. “Don’t ever make me wait again!”
“Mmmm… yes, Jonah… I’m sorry…”
Jonah shucked his jeans and peeled off his socks. He liked to fuck stark naked. Then he peeled off his damp, sweaty boxers, freeing his cock. It was long and thick—maybe not enough to be porn-worthy, but definitely big enough to be intimidating, curving slightly to the left, the head an angry purple-red that looked almost bruised with how bad he needed this. A thick vein ran along the underside, pulsing visibly with his heartbeat.
“Spread those fucking legs wider, cunt!”
He lined himself up and drove into her in one brutal, unforgiving thrust.
Tanya’s back arched violently, a choked moan spilling out of her that was half-pain and half-something-else entirely. Her cunt gripped him tight, the muscles clenching in that initial shock of being filled so suddenly, so completely. Jonah’s fingers dug into the meat of her hips, the bone sharp beneath the softness, and he started fucking her with a rhythm that was pure punishment.
The headboard—just a piece of plywood he’d nailed to the wall—slammed against the drywall. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Fast. Relentless. The apartment walls were thin as paper, and he knew the sound carried right through.
“Fuck,” she gasped.
“Here’s your fucking reward, toilet,” he grunted, watching himself disappear into her with each thrust, that slick-wet sound of flesh filling the room. “You like getting fucked like this, don’t you? Like a fucking barnyard animal.”
“I love it,” Tanya gasped into the mattress, her voice muffled. “Fuck, I love it so much.”
“‘Course you do. ‘Cause that’s what you are. A fucking sow in heat!”
“Yes… yes… Thank you, Jonah…”
The music next door switched tracks. Something with a faster beat, if that was even fucking possible. High-pitched synths and a bass drop that vibrated through the walls like a semi-truck rolling past. He could hear them cheering. Laughing. Felix’s faggy voice rising above the noise, probably welcoming more of his fairy friends to his little queer celebration.
His jaw tightened. Sweat dripped down his chest, mixed with the shop grease he hadn’t bothered to wash off—definitely not for this whore—making his skin slick. Tanya’s pussy made wet, sucking sounds around his cock, and he watched his eight inches disappear into her stretched hole, watched the shine of her juices coating his shaft.
Those fucking faggots were ruining his goddamn playtime. And this bitch’s pussy needed to tighten the hell up. His hand slid up from her hip and wrapped around her throat again. He started to choke her, not enough to cut off air completely, but enough to remind her who was in charge. Her breath came in ragged, muffled gasps against the sheets, and he felt her cunt tighten around his cock in a vice-like response. “That’ s it! Fuck yes!” He chuckled, darkly pleased with himself.
The whore was moaning; she was clearly getting off on the way he treated her, not that the boy gave a single shit. She was there to make him feel good, period.
He pulled out completely, gave her face a stinging slap, and barked: “Face down, whore! Ass up!”
She complied immediately, rolling over and presenting herself, face shoved into the mattress. Jonah put one knee between her spread legs and planted his bare foot firmly over the back of her head, pinning her down. Then he shoved his whole cock back into her, using her pussy exactly like you’d use a fleshlight. That felt good. The sensation of her face trapped under his sole, right where she belonged.
He heard the fags laugh again as a new song started. God, how he hated them. Since fucking middle school, it was ingrained, so much so that by high school, making their lives a living hell was second nature. They were easy to spot, too—the way they walked with that little sway, the way they talked with that lispy softness. It made his blood boil. They weren’t human. That was the key. Once you understood that, everything else fell into place. You don’t feel guilty about stepping on a roach. You don’t feel bad about swatting a fly. Faggots were the same thing: pests, infestations, something that needed to be cleaned out before it spread.
They deserved everything they got. All of them. Every last one.
And of course, he had to end up living right next door to one.
Felix.
Felix, with his perfect fucking smile and his perfect fucking hair, always leaning against his doorframe at seven in the morning when Jonah stumbled out for work, always with that chirpy little “Good morning, Jonah!” in a voice that could make a straight man’s balls shrivel up and hide. Always inviting him to “little get-togethers” like Jonah would ever be caught dead at a party full of cock-sucking freaks.
Tanya moaned louder, the sound grating on him. Jonah pressed down harder with his foot. “Shut the fuck up, toilet! Tighten that fucking pussy or I’ll find one that will!”
He hauled her up off the mattress, her back against his chest, his arm wrapping around the front of her throat in a chokehold again. The pressure resumed.
“You know you only live so real men can stick their dicks in you, right?” he growled, his lips right against her ear.
“Yes…”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want with you, anytime I want, right?”
“Oh, god yes… please, do it!!” the whore moaned, her body trembling.
His fingers tightened. Tanya’s breath hitched and stopped completely, her whole body going rigid against him, her cunt clamping down on his cock so hard it was almost painful. That was what he needed—that impossible, desperate tightness of a woman right on the edge of blacking out. The blood rushed to his cock, the sensation intense and immediate.
“Fuck, yeah!” he snarled through clenched teeth.
He released her throat and shoved her back down onto the mattress. Tanya sucked in a huge, wet, desperate gasp of air.
The music felt louder now. Or maybe he was just angrier. Every beat felt like a personal insult, every synthetic note a reminder that the world was filling up with degenerates who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as normal men. He grabbed a fistful of Tanya’s hair and yanked her head back, using it like a rein on a horse.
Tanya cried out, her fingers clawing at the sheets for purchase.
“Spread your fucking legs wider, bitch. I can still see daylight.”
The music next door changed again. Something with vocals now—some dude wailing about freedom or love or whatever the hell faggots sang about. Felix’s voice cut through, shrill with excitement.
“Turn it up! This is my jam!”
He hated that voice. That lisping, musical, friendly faggot voice. Like the queer couldn’t read the pure disgust on Jonah’s face every time they passed in the hall.
Like last Christmas, when Felix had knocked on his door holding a plate of cookies. Cookies. Shaped like fucking snowflakes with blue frosting. “I know you don’t have family in town,” the fag had said, smile bright as the goddamn sun, “so I thought you might want some holiday cheer.”
Jonah had taken the plate, looked at those fag-ass cookies, and dumped the whole thing straight into the trash can right in front of him. Felix’s smile had flickered—just for a second—before he’d swallowed and muttered, “Well, happy holidays anyway,” and scurried back to his queer den.
Fucking faggot.
Tanya’s pussy was doing that thing—that fluttering, squeezing, pre-orgasm pulse that usually meant she was about to come. Her mouth hung slack, drool pooling at the corner. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, her tits bouncing wildly with each slam of Jonah’s hips against her ass.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warned, tightening his grip in her hair. “You don’t come until I say you can. This isn’t about your pleasure, you stupid cunt.”
She nodded frantically, or tried to, with his hand controlling her head. Her fingers twisted in the sheets. Her thighs shook violently against his sides. The music next door reached some kind of crescendo, a swell of synthesizers that made his own head pound in time.
His balls finally drew up tight, heavy, and aching. That was it. The edge.
“Look at me, whore,” he commanded, his voice a low rasp.
Her glazed eyes found his. Dilated pupils, a vacant glassy surface, the face of a bitch who knew her only purpose in life was to drain his balls when he needed them drained. He’d met her six months ago at some shitty bar downtown. She’d laughed at his jokes, let him buy her one drink, then followed him home without him even having to ask. Some women just knew. They could smell it on certain guys—the raw dominance, the casual cruelty, the complete lack of give-a-fuck about their pleasure. And they craved it anyway.
“Here it comes,” he grunted, slamming home one final, deep time. “Take it. Take every fucking drop, you stupid toilet!”
The orgasm ripped through him, tearing a sound from his throat that was half-growl, half-groan. His vision spotted at the edges. His fingers dug into her throat, her hip bone, anchoring him as he emptied into her cunt, pulse after hot pulse of thick, sticky cum flooding her insides. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting the last violent shivers work through his body before he pulled out with a wet, obscene pop.
The silence afterward was always the best part. Even the fag music next door seemed muted, distant, like his ears had been stuffed with cotton. He collapsed onto his back on the mattress, chest heaving, cock slick and softening against his thigh. The joint he’d rolled that morning sat on the nightstand, and he fumbled for it with fingers that weren’t quite steady.
“Lighter,” he ordered, not looking at her.
Tanya scrambled off the bed, his cum already leaking down her inner thigh, and fetched the cheap plastic lighter from the dresser. She knelt beside the mattress—didn’t even try to get back on it—and held the flame to the tip of his joint while he took that first long, deep drag.
Sweet relief. Acrid smoke filled his lungs, and he held it there, letting the burn settle something jagged and restless deep in his chest. He let his head fall back against the pillow. The music next door was still going. Of course it was. Felix’s queer parties usually ran until two or three in the morning, and even then, the cleanup noise could last another hour. Bottles clinking. Furniture being shoved around. That stupid, bright laugh of his, ringing out like everything in his twisted world was just wonderful.
“I really don’t mind the music,” Tanya ventured again, her voice small and tentative. Her hand had crept up to rest lightly on his thigh. “It’s kind of catchy, actually—”
“I told you to shut the fuck up, whore!” He blew a cloud of smoke directly in her face without even looking at her. “Get down there and use your fucking mouth for the only reason god gave you one. That’s all you’re good for.”
She knew exactly what that meant, and of course, she obeyed instantly, a stupid giggle escaping her as she moved. Her mouth found his half-hard cock, her tongue lapping at the mix of his cum and her own juices that coated his shaft. He closed his eyes, took another long hit from the joint, and let his mind drift into the haze. She began to lick him clean with the methodical devotion of someone who’d done this many times before—long, slow strokes of her tongue along the underside, soft suction that pulled the last of his release from the tip, gentle attention to his balls, which she cupped in one hand while her tongue traced lazy patterns across the sensitive skin.
It was a whore’s duty, after all.
That fucking music was pissing him off more and more. He thought about kicking in Felix’s door, throwing punches, smashing their stereo to pieces. But that would definitely get the cops called, and he didn’t need that kind of heat right now. He thought about slashing the fag’s tires, but that was too impersonal. He wanted Felix to know. He wanted that queer to understand exactly who had done it, and why.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, pushing Tanya’s head away roughly. “Get out.”
She looked up at him, her lips shiny with spit. “Already?”
“You heard me. Get your shit and go.”
She didn’t argue. She never did. She pulled her cut-offs back on, grabbed her shirt, and was out the door in under two minutes. Jonah lay there in the aftermath, smoking his joint in the semi-silence—well, not silence, because that fag-ass music was still fucking playing—and felt the anger coiling in his gut again. It wasn’t enough that he’d just fucked a woman senseless. It wasn’t enough that he’d choked her and degraded her and used her like the toy she was. That shit next door was still going on, and it was going to keep going on, week after week, because faggots never learned their place.
His bladder twinged, a dull pressure. He needed to piss.
He swung his legs off the bed, stood up on the gritty carpet, and took two steps toward the bathroom before stopping dead in the middle of the dark room.
An idea.
A beautiful, fantastic fucking idea.
The smirk that curled Jonah’s lips wasn't a smile—it was a predator’s reflex, a flash of teeth that promised nothing good for anybody who knew what it meant. He hauled himself off the mattress, the stale scent of his own sweat and Tanya’s pussy still hanging in the air, and yanked on a pair of black gym shorts so thin they were practically sheer, the cotton stained with old grease and God-knows-what. A wife-beater, once white, now the color of dishwater and regret, followed. He shoved his feet into battered flip-flops, the joint still smoldering between his knuckles, a trailing ribbon of smoke in the dim room.
He walked out his apartment door and stood in the hallway, letting the cheap wood slam shut behind him.
The door to 3B was still propped open. That fucking brick, wrapped in rainbow duct tape, sat there like a middle finger to decency. The music was a physical force out here, a throbbing bassline that vibrated the floor under his feet. Through the crack, he could see the shadow-play of bodies—silhouettes gyrating, arms raised, hips doing that faggy little sway that made his stomach turn. Somebody had strung up colored lights, red and blue and green, strobing across the ceiling in time with the beat, painting the walls in sickly, carnival hues.
Jonah took a deep breath, the air thick with the smell of sweet, cloying, floral cologne that made him wanna hurl. He stepped inside.
"Jonah!"
That voice. That lisping, musical, fucking voice. Felix materialized from the crowd like a goddamn fairy godmother, all perfect teeth and a smile so bright it looked painful. The fag had one of those faces that was almost too pretty—symmetrical like a doll, with long eyelashes and clear skin that probably cost more in creams than Jonah made in a fucking week. His brown hair fell across his forehead in that artful, messy way that took twenty minutes to get right. Jonah wanted to punch his fag snout so fucking back. But he didn’t. What he was trying to pull was better.
"Oh my god, I am so happy you came!" Felix clasped his hands together under his chin, his eyes wide with a pathetic, shining hope. "I've been inviting you for, like, months, and you never—I mean, never—"
"Yeah, well. Music was fuckin' loud," Jonah said, his voice flat as West Texas pavement. He let his gaze sweep the room, a slow, contemptuous drag over the sea of fairies. "Figured if I can't beat 'em, might as well get a free drink out of it."
"Of course! Absolutely! This is amazing. This is genuinely amazing." Felix turned toward the room, raising his voice over the synth-pop. "Everyone! Hey, everyone, quiet down for a sec! This is Jonah! He lives next door!"
A wave of greetings washed over him—high-pitched, eager, dripping with a forced friendliness that set his teeth on edge. Jonah’s eyes cataloged the filth. Men in shirts so tight they showed nipples. Pants that looked painted on. One dude was actually wearing a mesh tank top, his soft, hairless chest visible through the holes like some kind of fucking exhibit. They were all dancing too close, hands on waists, laughing with their heads thrown back. A whole room of cock-hungry freaks.
"There's refreshments in the kitchen," Felix said, gesturing toward a closed door with a flourish. "We've got my famous punch! Everyone says it's, like, my calling card. Plus some chips and shit if you're hungry. Help yourself!"
"Punch, huh?" Jonah asked, letting the smirk creep back onto his face. This was too fucking easy.
"The best in Lubbock! I'm not even playin'! It's got, like, seven different juices, it's my grandma's secret recipe—she's from Galveston, so you know it's legit."
Jonah's smile widened, a mean little slice. "Nice. Real nice."
"Go on! Grab a glass! Mingle! Make yourself at home!" Felix actually reached out and patted Jonah's shoulder—a quick, familiar tap that made Jonah's skin crawl some more—before getting yanked away by some twink asking about the playlist.
Jonah watched the fag disappear into the colorful swarm. The music pulsed, the lights spun, and the air was thick with the smell of their excitement—sweet booze, designer body spray, and underneath it all, the faint, salty-sweet scent of faggot arousal. It was fucking disgusting. But he wasn’t there to just watch.
He didn't linger. He walked straight to the kitchen door, pushed it open, and closed it firmly behind him.
The kitchen was small, unnaturally clean—spotless counters, gleaming stainless steel sink, everything in its place. A neat freak. Of course he was. And there, centered on the island like a goddamn shrine, was the punch bowl. It was huge, one of those fancy crystal-cut things that probably cost more than Jonah's TV. The liquid inside was a deep, artificial ruby red, with slices of orange and lemon floating on the surface like pathetic little decorations. Jesus fucking Christ. He thought. This is gonna be good.
Jonah glanced at the closed door. The thump of the bass was muffled here, but he could still hear the distant shrieks of laughter, the thud of dancing feet. They were all out there, lost in their little fairy world. It was now or never.
A cold, thrilling rush shot down his spine. He pulled out his phone, opened the camera, and hit record. The red light glowed. Then he reached into his shorts, freed his cock, and aimed.
"Happy fuckin' homo pride, you stupid cocksuckers," he growled into the phone's mic, his grin wolfish. "Enjoy the special ingredient. Straight from the tap."
He let go.
The stream hit the surface of the punch with a loud, frothy splash. The sharp, acrid, ammonia tang of his piss cut through the cloying fruity scent immediately—a brutal, masculine stench that felt like a declaration of war in the sterilized kitchen. Jonah angled the phone, making sure to get a good shot of his dick, the steady yellow arc, the bowl. "Look at this, you fucking fairies. Look what I'm givin' you. This is what you deserve to drink. My piss. In your little fag punch. My fuckin' piss. And I'm gonna stand right out there and watch every last one of you drink it down with a smile, you degenerate pieces of shit!"
He pissed for a long time, his bladder achingly full. The stream was strong and steady, churning the red liquid, making the fruit slices bob and swirl. When it finally tapered to a drip, the level in the bowl had risen a good inch. He tucked himself back in, the front of his shorts damp, and leaned over the bowl again, working up a thick, hot mouthful of saliva.
First loogie: a heavy, greenish wad that landed with a plop right in the center. It floated for a second before slowly sinking into the red depths.
Second loogie: aimed at an orange slice, clinging to the rind.
Third loogie: a hacking gob that disappeared immediately.
"Cheers, you fucking freaks!"
He stopped the recording, saved it, and pocketed his phone. Then he spotted a long wooden spoon on the counter. Seems like the universe, or whoever was in charge, really wanted him to do that. He grabbed it, plunged it into the contaminated punch, and stirred. Slowly at first, then with vigorous, thorough circles, watching his piss and spit blend seamlessly into the fruity mix until there was no visible trace. Just a slightly cloudier, still-deep-red punch. Perfect.
He ran the spoon under the tap, tossed it in the sink, and grabbed a beer can from the fridge. Then he walked back out into the party.
"Did you try it?" Felix appeared at his elbow like a needy ghost, his eyes wide and hopeful. "Please tell me you tried the punch."
"Not really a punch guy," Jonah said, taking a pointed, loud slurp of his beer.
"Oh, you have to! I swear it's—"
Fucking fag and his punch! Jonah thought.
“Maybe later,” he cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Felix opened his mouth, probably to launch into another spiel about his grandma’s Galveston recipe, but a shrill voice cut through the noise.
“Felix! Babe! Get your fine ass over here, they’re lining up the shot train!”
Some twink in a crop top that showed his midriff was waving from the kitchen doorway, a line of full shot glasses already gleaming on the counter. Felix’s head snapped around, his party-host mode reactivating instantly.
“Shit, I totally forgot—okay, I’m coming!” He turned back to Jonah, already backpedaling, and pointed at him with finger guns. “I’ll find you later, yeah? Don’t leave without saying goodbye!”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the undulating crowd, leaving Jonah alone by the wall.
Good. He didn't have to pretend to give a single shit. He could just lean here, sip his beer, and enjoy the fucking show.
He didn't have to wait long. Maybe five minutes later, the first one went in. A skinny twink in pink shorts so tight they looked like they’d cut off circulation wandered into the kitchen. Jonah heard the distinct clink of the ladle against crystal. The kid came back out holding a brimming glass of that ruby-red poison, and he took a long, greedy gulp before he’d even hit the dance floor.
Go on, you little fairy. Drink up.
Jonah watched, his own mouth dry, as the twink swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. The kid smacked his lips, let out a happy sigh, and turned to his friend. "Dude, Felix's punch is so fire tonight. He really outdid himself."
You stupid fucking cocksucker. My piss is in it and you're calling it 'fire.'
The friend, some dude with frosted tips, immediately headed for the kitchen. Came back with his own glass. Drank. Nodded in vigorous agreement.
Dude, they’re fucking doing it! They’re fucking drinking it!
His smirk felt carved into his face. It became a ritual. Glass after glass, ladled out of that crystal bowl like it was the goddamn Fountain of Youth. The twink in pink went back for a second, then a third. The guy in the mesh tank top—soft around the middle, with a weak chin—elbowed his way in and emerged with a full glass, smacking his lips loudly.
"Seriously, man," Mesh Tank announced, his voice carrying, "you gotta give me this recipe. This shit is bomb."
Bomb. Yeah. You're drinking a bomb, you fat fuck.
Jonah took another sip of beer, the coolness a stark contrast to the heat of his triumph. He watched them swarm the punch bowl, a hive of faggots getting drunk on his waste. One of them—a lanky guy with thick glasses—filled his glass to the absolute brim, took a dramatic, long pull, then held it aloft.
"A toast! To the best host in Lubbock! The punch king!"
A chorus of "hear, hear!" and clinking glasses. More gulps. More swallows. Felix, beaming with pride, accepted the praise with a little bow.
"Told you all!" Felix chirped, catching Jonah's eye from across the room. "It's the punch that makes the party! It’s, like, the heart of the whole thing!"
Jonah had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud.
"Really brings people together, you know?" Felix continued, weaving through the crowd toward him again. "We used to just do beer and wine coolers, but the punch is, like, our signature now. People remember it."
The moment stretched. Jonah could have said it. Right then. He could have watched the light die in those pretty fag eyes, seen the smile melt into horror. The secret was a hot, living thing on his tongue. But he stopped himself. No. Not yet. That wasn't the full play.
He pushed off the wall instead, set his empty beer can down on a side table with a definitive clink, and stretched, his arms rising above his head. The wife-beater rode up, exposing a strip of pale, taut stomach and the trail of hair leading down into his shorts. He let out a long, bored yawn.
"Alright," he announced, scratching at the stubble on his neck. "I'm out. Early shift."
Felix's face fell like a dropped plate. The transition from radiant host to wounded puppy was instant and complete. His shoulders slumped. "What? Already? But you just got here!"
"Told you. Early."
"Right, right, I know, but... I was hoping we could, I dunno, talk or something..." Felix trailed off, chewing on his plump lower lip, trying and failing to hide how pathetic he felt. "Well. I'm just... really glad you came. Like, really glad. You have no idea how long I've been hoping you'd stop by. Even for a minute."
Pathetic much? Stupid queer. Jonah thought, the irony so thick he could taste it.
He just shrugged, a dismissive roll of his shoulders. "Yeah, well. Here I am. I came. Don't make a whole thing about it."
"No, I mean it!" Felix followed him to the door, practically tripping over his own feet. "Thank you. Thank you, Jonah. For real. For stopping by. It means a lot to me. If you ever want to come by again, seriously, the door is always open. I mean it. Always. I'll text you when we have another thing, yeah? Can I do that? I've got your number from the building's group chat—"
"Whatever," Jonah said, stepping out into the cool, quiet hallway. The thumping music felt like a fever dream he was leaving behind.
"Thank you!" Felix called after him, his voice echoing. "Don't be a stranger!"
Jonah didn't look back. He already knew exactly what that pathetic face looked like: hopeful, grateful, utterly owned. He let himself into 3A, closed the door, and leaned against it.
Then he laughed.
It started as a low chuckle in his chest and erupted into full, body-shaking howls. He laughed until he was wheezing, tears streaming from his eyes, sliding down the door to sit on the floor. The muffled thump-thump-thump of the fag music through the wall was the best soundtrack he'd ever heard. They were still in there. Still dancing. Still drinking his fucking piss.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, still grinning, and saw Kyle's name.
Kyle: yo u awake?
Jonah: yeah bitch what’s up
Kyle: bored as fuck. u still got that bitch over?
Jonah: kicked her out like an hour ago
Kyle: lol already? u got the stamina of a 70 year old
Jonah: fuck you. i got something better than pussy tonight
Kyle: ???
Jonah: check ur messages in 2 seconds
He pulled up the video. Watched it again, his grin returning full force. The yellow stream. The splash. His own growled commentary. He sent it.
Thirty seconds later, his phone blew up.
Kyle: HAHAHAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK
Kyle: IS THAT THE FAGGOT’S PUNCH
Kyle: BRO YOU’RE A FUCKING LEGEND
Jonah: told you i had something better than pussy
Kyle: dude i’m crying. you pissed in their fucking party punch???
Kyle: did they fucking drink it???
Jonah: all of them
Kyle: NO FUCKING WAY
Jonah: i stood there and watched. must’ve been like 20 of them. filling their glasses, gulping it down, telling that fag Felix how good his “famous punch” was
Kyle: HAHAHAHA I’M GONNA PISS MYSELF
Kyle: fucking disgusting piss drinking homos
Jonah: one of them had like three glasses. kept coming back for more
Kyle: probably tasted better than anything that fag’s ever made anyways.
Kyle: bet they would've still drunk it even if they knew
Jonah: wouldn’t surprise me. they’re not even human
Kyle: facts.
Kyle: so what did the fag say when you left? did he suspect anything?
Jonah: not a fuckin' thing. thanked me for coming. said i should come back anytime. gave me that pathetic little smile like i was his best friend
Kyle: HAHAHA he’s probably jerking off to the thought of you being at his party
Jonah: for sure bro
Kyle: should’ve pissed in his mouth instead
Jonah: maybe next time
Kyle: you’re a goddamn artist Jonah
Kyle: seriously. that’s the funniest shit i’ve heard all year
Jonah: wait till they find out. i’m gonna send the video to that fag in the morning
Kyle: for real???? Yeah do it.
Kyle: i wanna hear all bout that fairy cry
Jonah: totally LMAO
Kyle: talk tomorrow. night bitch
Jonah: haha night pussy
He tossed his phone onto the mattress, the stupid grin still plastered on his face. He lit another joint, took a deep drag, and let the smoke plume toward the water-stained ceiling.
Goddamn. Life was fucking good.
---
The first thing that pulled Jonah from a black, dreamless sleep was the familiar, urgent pressure in his bladder—a dull, insistent ache that felt like a fist slowly clenching in his gut. His eyes peeled open, gritty and dry, morning light cutting through the blinds in harsh bars. The apartment stank: old weed, the lingering musk of sex, the sour tang of his own unwashed body. He groaned, a rough sound in the quiet, and rolled onto his back, his hand dragging down his face.
His dick was hard, morning wood straining against his boxers, throbbing in time with his full bladder. The classic combo.
He shoved himself upright, planted his bare feet on the cold, gritty floor, and stood with a grunt. No hangover from booze, but from a deeper, more satisfying intoxication—the kind that came from winning. The memory clicked into place before he was fully awake: the punch bowl. The video.
A vicious smirk split his face as he stumbled to the bathroom, stood over the toilet, and let go. The stream was powerful, splashing loudly against the porcelain, and he watched it with a thick sense of pride. That's what they're digesting right fucking now.
He finished, shook off, flushed, and didn't bother washing his hands. Back in the main room, he scooped his phone off the floor. The screen lit up, and there was the video thumbnail. He hadn't deleted it. He tapped it, watched it again, the low chuckle building in his chest until he was laughing again, alone in the filthy room.
His thumb hovered over the screen, the video ready to send. He was about to hit share when he saw the little red notification bubble on his messages. One new message. From Felix.
What the fuck does this faggot want now? He clicked over it, the smirk still in place. Un-fucking- believable.
Felix: Hey Jonah! Just wanted to say again how amazing it was that you came by last night. Seriously, it made my whole week. I know you’re not really into the scene or whatever, but it meant the world to me that you showed up. You’re always welcome here, anytime. Door’s always open. Hope you had a good time! 😊
Jonah read it twice, a low, disbelieving chuckle rumbling out of him. Door’s always open. Yeah. It fuckin' is. He could picture the fag typing it, all hopeful and earnest, probably smiling like a dumbass at his phone. Kissing his ass like a good little bitch.
Stupid. Fucking. Faggot.
His grin turned sharp enough to cut. He tapped back to the video, selected it, and pulled up Felix's chat. His fingers flew over the screen.
Jonah: honestly had a blast lol. figured i’d return the favor and add a little something extra to that famous punch of yours. here’s a lil behind the scenes for u. hope everyone liked it as much as u did 😉
He selected ‘view once’ cause he wasn’t an idiot and hit send. The little spinner. Delivered. Read. The two blue checks appeared. He locked the phone, tossed it on the mattress, and stretched, a satisfied animal after a good hunt.
Let that fag choke on that.
He took a quick, cold shower, the water sluicing the previous day's grease and sweat from his skin, and headed to work.
The day at Monty's Auto was its own kind of hell—a full transmission rebuild on a diesel F-250 that had seen more dirt roads than pavement. His hands cramped, his back screamed, and the smell of gear oil and burnt metal soaked into his pores. But every time the frustration built, he’d think of the video. Of Felix's face when he watched it. The dawning horror. He was a little surprised the fairy hadn't replied yet. He'd been braced for the backlash all day—the angry texts, the threats, the "I'm calling the cops, you homophobic piece of shit." He had his defenses ready in his head, rehearsed and sharp. Prove it. The punch is gone. Video’s gone. Your word against mine, fairy.
By the time he pulled his beat-up truck back into the apartment lot that afternoon, the golden-hour sun casting long shadows, he was in a disturbingly good mood.
And there it was.
Leaning against his door. A cream-colored envelope, thick and expensive.
He snatched it up, frowning. His name was on the front in swirly, feminine handwriting: Jonah. He tore it open right there in the hall.
It was a card. On the front, in gold-foil letters: "THANK YOU." Inside, the same fancy script:
Dear Jonah,
Thank you so much for the video and for your special ingredient. We've never had anything as uniquely tasty. You made me so incredibly happy. As a small token of my appreciation, please accept this gift.
With gratitude,
Felix
A slip of paper fluttered out. Jonah bent and picked it up.
An Amazon gift card. Two hundred and fifty fucking dollars.
He stared at it. Then he laughed—a loud, disbelieving bark that echoed in the empty hallway and made old Mrs. Czernak's door crack open an inch before snapping shut like she'd seen a ghost.
"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me," he said to the air, shaking his head. The crazy fucker had actually sent him money. The world had officially gone insane.
"Jonah!"
He turned, the gift card still clutched in his fist.
Felix stood in the doorway of 3B, wearing a tight t-shirt with a rainbow across the chest that stretched over his lean frame. His hair was perfect, that artful mess that probably took twenty minutes with a blow dryer and product. His smile was serene, fucking peaceful, like he'd just meditated or some shit. He looked utterly, infuriatingly pleased with himself.
"What the fuck is this?" Jonah waved the card like it was evidence at a crime scene.
"A thank-you card," Felix said, his voice calm as Sunday morning. "Didn’t you read the message?"
"No, I read it, you dumb fuck. What I mean is, what the actual fuck?" Jonah took a step closer, his boots heavy on the linoleum. "I pissed in your punch, you stupid fag. I sent you a video of me pissing in your bowl. You saw it. You watched me take a goddamn leak right into your fancy crystal shit."
"I saw it." Felix's smile didn't falter. "Very creative. The commentary was... evocative."
Jonah blinked, his brain stuttering like a bad engine. This wasn't the reaction. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. "So you... what? You want more? You want me to come piss in your fuckin' cereal tomorrow? Is that your kink, you sick fuck?"
"Actually… I was hoping we could talk. Privately." Felix stepped back, gesturing into his apartment. "If you have a few minutes."
"I got nothin' to say to you."
"That's fine. You can just listen." Felix's expression shifted, the placid smile softening into something more serious, almost nervous. "Please, Jonah. Just five minutes. Then I'll leave you alone forever if that's what you want."
The hall was silent. Jonah looked at the gift card—two-fifty, more than a week's pay at Monty's—then back at Felix's earnest, pretty face.
"Alright," he grunted, shoving the gift card into his back pocket. "Talk. But make it quick. I got shit to do."
Felix led him inside. The apartment was different in the daylight—clean, tasteful, actually nice in a way that made Jonah's own place feel like a dumpster. Real furniture, not just shit dragged in from the curb. Art on the walls that didn't look like it came from a motel. A thick, plush rug that probably cost more than Jonah's truck payment. The air smelled like lemon cleaner and some kind of vanilla candle bullshit. Felix gestured to a deep velvet armchair, dark green and looking like it belonged in some rich person's library. Jonah sat, because standing made him feel like he was on display, like some exhibit in the fag's perfect little world.
"Can I get you anything? Water? A beer?" Felix asked, hovering near the kitchen doorway. "I promise," he added with a small, nervous laugh, "I haven't added any special ingredients."
"Just talk," Jonah said, sinking into the chair. It was softer than anything he'd ever sat in. He hated how comfortable it was.
Felix nodded and sat on the couch opposite, perched on the edge like a bird about to take flight. He folded his hands in his lap, and Jonah saw his knuckles were white from the pressure. The fag was nervous. Good. He should be.
"First," Felix began, his voice careful, measured. "The gift card is real. Fully activated. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Spend it on anything."
"Why?" Jonah's voice was flat. "Why the fuck would you give me money after what I did?"
"Because what you did last night..." Felix took a careful breath, like he was choosing his words with tweezers. "What you did was exactly what I've been hoping for."
Jonah's eyes narrowed to slits. "The fuck does that mean?"
"I run a hookup website. A local one. Very private. Very specific. We call it the Circle."
"A fag one." Jonah stated it like a fact, not a question.
"Well… yeah, but… it’s a little more complicated…”
“Fag, I swear to god if you don’t start making sense I’mma make you regret you ever met me!” Jonah said, cracking his knuckles loudly in the quiet room. The sound echoed. “I got better things to do than listen to your fairy bullshit.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry…” Felix held up his hands, palms out in surrender. “It’s just that… okay here it goes… I’m a masochist, Jonah.” the fag confessed, the word hanging in the air between them.
“What?”
“Uhm… a masochist… You know, those people who get off on pain or being treated like…”
“I know what a fucking masochist is, fag! Get to the point!” Jonah barked, and Tanya's face flashed in his mind the second that word was said—the glassy look in her eyes when he'd had his hand around her throat, the way she'd begged for more. But that was different. She was a girl. This was a fucking faggot.
“Right, of course, sorry!” the fag apologized like a little bitch, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Well, the website I run is for submissive masochist gay men.” he explained, his words coming faster now. “These men…”
“Faggots.” Jonah's correction left no room for a reply. It was a statement of fact, a reassertion of the natural order.
“Right… these faggots pay to be humiliated. Degraded. Hurt. By real men who hate them.” he paused for a second, his eyes searching Jonah's face for understanding. "The thing is," Felix continued, his voice dropping to something hushed and confidential, "in a place like Lubbock, it's hard for… faggots… like us to find... compatible partners. We gotta be careful, we don’t wanna get killed, obviously, and sometimes straight men just want to… well… there’s no understanding of limits, of consent, of the... the art of it."
"Yeah, that's the fuckin' point," Jonah spat, leaning forward in the chair. The velvet rubbed against his back. "You think I give a shit about your 'limits'? You think I give a fuck about 'consent'? You're a faggot. You deserve whatever you get."
"No. See, that's exactly it." Felix's eyes lit up like Jonah had just proven his point. "The point is, we want to be hurt. We want to be treated like scum and humiliated. Not killed but definitely hurt! And we don’t want to do some lame S/M stuff with other fags, we wanna be hurt by someone whose hatred is authentic, you know. You can't fake genuine disgust. And you, Jonah..." Felix's eyes locked onto his, bright and intense with a feverish kind of admiration. "You are simply perfect for this because you don't have to fake a thing. That hatred in your eyes when you look at me? That's real. That's gold."
Jonah processed this slowly, like he was working on a stubborn bolt with stripped threads. The pieces weren't fitting right. "So you're tellin' me," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "you want me to be, what? Your bully? You want me to keep pissing in your punch and call you names and slap you around for fun?"
"Not just me. All my clients. And yes. Essentially." Felix was leaning forward now too, his hands clasped between his knees. "And you’d get paid, of course! We call men like you Straight Gods. Men whose contempt is real. Who are willing to... channel that into organized humiliation. There’s two other guys like you right now, both early twenties, both fag haters. I’ll give you their contacts so you can see that it’s all true. But there so many paying faggots they don’t have the time to meet all the demand. Besides they’re making so much cash as it is… ” he said all excited, his words tumbling over each other. “It’s nothing sexual, of course! You’re obviously not interested. You just hurt us. Humiliate us. Within negotiated limits, but..." A small, almost shy smile played on his lips. "You’ll be surprised to see how very and I mean, VERY few limits most of us have."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of what was being offered. Jonah was trying to wrap his brain around it all. Faggots paying to be treated like shit. By him. For money. Good money.
"And you pay for this."
"Handsomely." Felix leaned forward even more, his expression earnest, his eyes wide. "Two hundred and fifty dollars. Cash. Per session. Every time you humiliate us, every time you make us feel like the worthless faggots we know we are. That money is yours." He let the number hang in the air between them, a tangible thing. "No gift cards this time. No bullshit. Straight cash."
Jonah's jaw tightened. Two-fifty. For a few hours of doing what came naturally. For making faggots feel like shit. It was so much fucking money.
"Two-fifty a pop," he repeated, the words tasting like copper and power on his tongue. "Cash."
"Cash," Felix confirmed, his smile widening a fraction, like he knew he was hooking him. "You show up, humiliate some fag, you walk out with an envelope. No taxes. No paper trail. No questions."
Jonah's mouth went dry. His heart hammered against his ribs, not with fear, but with a sudden, dizzying greed that felt like a physical ache in his gut. This was too easy. Too perfect.
"You're bullshittin' me," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. It came out sounding weak, like he wanted to be convinced.
"I'm not, I swear. As I said, call the other two guys. And of course, everything is super discreet; nobody would know. Not a soul." Felix's gaze was unwavering, locked onto Jonah's like he was trying to beam the truth directly into his brain. "I've been watching you, Jonah. For months. The way you look at me. The things you mutter under your breath when you pass me in the hall. The way your whole body coils like you want to hit me. You're exactly what we need. And last night... the piss, the video, the glee... you didn't just do it. You performed it. You enjoyed it." Felix's voice dropped to a reverent whisper, like he was talking about something holy. "That's the rarity. Someone who genuinely enjoys it. Not just doing it for the money. Actually getting off on our pain. That's what makes you special."
Jonah stared at him, the gears grinding in his head. It was too perfect. Too easy. A trap. Had to be. Faggots were sneaky. They were liars. They’d set you up and laugh while you fell.
"You're tryin' to pull somethin'," he said, rising to his feet. The chair sighed as he pushed out of it. "I'm out, fag. This is some crazy shit, and I ain't falling for it."
He was turning toward the door, his boots heavy on the plush rug, when Felix's voice, suddenly firm and clear, stopped him.
"Your sneakers are filthy."
Jonah froze mid-step.
“What?”
He looked down at his worn-out work sneakers, caked in West Texas dirt, grease from the transmission fluid, and God-knows-what else from the shop floor. They were fucking disgusting, the laces gray with grime, the soles packed with dried mud and oil stains.
Felix had produced a wad of cash from his pocket—crisp twenties and fifties, held by a gold money clip that flashed in the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. He didn't just kneel. He went full prostration, forehead on the floor in front of Jonah’s feet, his ass in the air, his hands flat on the rug beside his head. The position was so submissive, so utterly degrading, that Jonah felt a hot rush of power surge through him.
"If you let me lick them clean for you," Felix said, his voice muffled against the carpet but still clear, thick with a desire that made Jonah's skin crawl in the best way, "I'll give you all the cash I have on me..."
Jonah's eyes darted from the cash to Felix's body, prostrated on the floor like a Muslim at prayer. The fag was dead serious. He wasn't playing. He actually wanted to lick his fucking shoes.
"You're a fuckin' insane freak," Jonah breathed, but he could hear the awe in his own voice, the disbelief giving way to a dark, thrilling acceptance.
But his hand shot out anyway, moving on its own, and grabbed the money from where Felix had placed it on the floor. He counted it right there, his grin returning, wide and mean as a razor slash. Two-eighty. Almost three hundred dollars. Just like that. For letting a fag lick his shoes.
He laughed, loud and harsh, the sound bouncing off the clean walls of this fag's perfect apartment. "You pathetic fuckin' cocksucker," he sneered, throwing himself back onto the couch—not the chair, the couch, right where Felix had been sitting—and planting his dirty sneaker firmly on the glass coffee table. The grime left a smear on the polished surface. "You genuinely want to lick my fuckin' shoes? After I pissed in your punch? After I called you every fucking name in the book?"
Felix looked up from the floor, his forehead red from the carpet, his eyes wide and wet. He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed. His eyes were glued to Jonah's shoe like it was the Holy Grail, like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Jonah leaned forward, his movement slow and deliberate, and planted his foot down on the fag’ of his head, pressing it back to the floor. The pressure wasn't gentle. He could feel the hard bone of Felix's skull under the sole of his sneaker, could feel the fag go completely still beneath him. "Louder, faggot! Tell me what you are!"
"A worthless piece of shit," Felix whispered, his voice trembling, but when Jonah eased the pressure, the fag crawled forward again, his breath coming fast and shallow. He didn't even wait for permission this time—his head launched forward the second Jonah had given him the go-ahead, his pink, eager tongue extended, and made first contact with the grimy rubber toe of his sneaker.
The sound was wet. Disgusting. A low, satisfied groan escaped the fag's throat, a sound of pure pleasure that made Jonah's dick harden in his jeans.
“Fucking faggot scum!” Jonah growled, settling back into the couch, spreading his legs wide like a king on a velvet throne. He watched, mesmerized, as Felix worked his tongue over the filthy sneaker, lapping at the dirt and grease with a devotion that was almost religious. The fag was moaning now, little whimpering sounds escaping with each lick, his eyes closed in ecstasy.
Jonah looked down at the cash in his hand. This was just the beginning. This was just a little taste.
“You're definitely hooking me up with those other pathetic faggots! Time to make some cash off you all, you fucking freaks!"
Felix didn't even look up. He just kept licking, his tongue working methodically over every crevice of the sneaker, cleaning it with a reverence that made Jonah want to laugh and vomit at the same time. The power was a drug, sweeter than any pussy, hotter than any fight. It was his. All his. Just because he was born straight. Just because he was a man. And these faggots would pay him for the privilege of tasting his superiority.
The world, Jonah decided as he watched the fag slurp at his shoelaces, was a beautiful fucking place.
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