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Fatboy or Sweet and Low Self-Esteem No man wants you. No man wants to have sex with a fat ass wussyboy like you, Shane. I mean, look at you. Take a good long look at yourself in the mirror. Mirrors tell no lies like all those boys who told you you're great. Or friends who would describe you as being a nice person and would say that you're going to make whomever you meet really happy. More like make them throw up with disgust. Remember all those times you were putting all those ads in the paper? VOICE PERSONALS I think they were called. You would take a piece of yellow legal paper and draft out how you wanted your ad to read. Gay black male, 22, 24 or 27, whatever age you were going through at the time, seeks non-smoking, non-drinking gay, multicultural male 20 to 35 who is artistic, intelligent, ambitious and loves poetry for dating. Multicultural? What the fuck is that? And not everyone loves or even writes poetry. Sometimes in ads, you would do something that was so corny like say you were seeking someone for good times. We all know that means you're not looking for Prince Charming or even a guy that looked halfway like something. It meant you were horny and wanted to fuck. You were looking for fuckbuddies at times 'cause you were getting tired of giving blowjobs in public toilets and wanted to exchange them for an actual one-bedroom apartment with a built in bedroom. Then there was those ads where you would want someone that was "financially stable." Financially stable was what you called it. So then you wanted a rich fuckbuddy because you got tired of coming home to your parents who you still live with, with a three piece chicken combo in your hand instead of memories in your head about how great the food was at some new Mexican restaurant. Shit man, you are so pathetic. Desperate for real professional dick til you don't know which end is up. You're so fucked up. I don't think you even know what love is. You think love is Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks meeting at the top of the Empire State Building. You want life to be a fucking fairytale with happy endings where cute little bunnies and butterflies flutter around your big fat ass. Why do you set your hopes so high that after a while, they're too high for even you to reach? I'm so sick and tired of you falling for straight boys. I get amnesia from you banging your head against that brick wall. First there was Ben: the brunette that drove that shitty car. The one you stalked everyday after your art class. You'd run out to the parking lot, leave crazy fucking notes on the windshield and stalk him at Parkway 5, that theatre you used to work at. You got off more on the fact that he had no idea who you were then what you wanted from him. When he graduated, your little soap opera was canceled. I was glad too, 'cause for a while, I thought you was goin get caught and we would've both been in some serious shit. Then there was Jack and Nick. The two dopes that you used to work with at the theatre. You didn't love them. You just had crushes on em and saw em both as big dicks with arms and legs. Jack was a real asshole. You think just because the guy kissed you during a game of TRUTH or DARE, he's got like, feelings for you? He fixed you though by staying out of sight and out of your way. And as for the letters, the cards and gifts, I wanted to cut your hand off each time the thoughts of greeting cards entered your head. Nick was a complete troll, a fucking Nome that only cared about numero uno. This is the guy that friggin' stood you up at the movies. You were suppose to go see that movie... what was it... Losing Isaiah. That's it. You waited and waited in the lobby and he never showed. Good thing you didn't buy popcorn and hotdogs for two. You called him the next day and what did he tell you? He had to get the brakes on his Camero fixed. Now you and I both know, he had just bought that car and there wasn't a damn thing wrong with his brakes. You were the dumbass left with egg on your face. More like an entire omlet. But before all these complete losers there was Thad. He was so cool to you and you had to go take advantage of that niceness by telling him you liked him more than friends could ever like one another. And this, after he told you he had no problem with you being gay, and that he would be your friend as long as you didn't try none of that gay shit on him. But no, not you, you had to fuck it all up with your letters packed with gayboy confessions. I wanted to cut out your tongue for that stupid shit. I had to sit through journal entry after journal entry listening to you about how cute Joe is and that he has a cute bubble-butt. And how understanding and patient Tony was and if he weren't married, you'd ask him out. Like he would go out with somebody with flat feet and oily skin. It got so bad, you settled for Collin, Collin the guy who was bipolar and called you a nigger on your day off. Jack was the one who called and told you about it. I could not believe you sucked the cock of the same guy who called you a nigger. You sick fuck!! Didn't you get it, didn't you catch the drift that it was our dick going into his ass, that it was our cock fucking his face? Your penis is just as much mine as it is yours. You stooped to an all-time low with him. Sneaking in the storage room for a quickie. Fucking and fornicating between the trail mix and yogurt covered pretzels. Nasty fucker swallowing cum behind the register of Panhandle Pet Supply. Then one day, you got your just deserves. You called there on Sunday like you would always do and someone else answered the phone. It wasn't his voice. Is Collin working today?" you asked. "Collin doesn't work here anymore," the girl said in her fairest of voices. That was so funny. I laughed and grinned and pointed the finger you could not see. You kept calling his house, but he was never home. In your relentless attempts to reach him at home, his father answered and explained that he moved out and you asked, "Is there a number where he can be reached, I'm an old friend from the theatre?" you would plead. You called and he gave you the sad news that he was no longer working at the pet store and that his "girlfriend," who he had been dating on the side from you, had gotten him a job working for the state. You were afraid he had gotten fired. You're such a naive piece of shit you are. But the thing that really made my whole day, my whole goddamned year, was when he told you he didn't want to do that anymore, When he said he didn't want to fool around, fuck. He said not to call him, that he would call you. For weeks you thought of Collin while jacking-off. Fantasizing about the time he gave you head on a warehouse of cardboard boxes. Everything changes you loser. Nothing stays the same. Now to cope, you're writing poems about this guy. I could feel the effects of your pain when you saw him coming out of the bookstore. The nerve of him completely ignoring you as if you were some nasty scab far removed from his skin. You're more like a hairy mole on the ass of life. And I'm sick of having to endure this shit. If I had my way, we'd go pick up chics instead of wasting time with dickless wonders like Collin. For the longest time, I thought he was retarded. You keep writing these poems about that Todd guy too. I approve of him. He's cool, but you know he's married and you still got your fingers crossed. I agree you two would be great together if he was gay, but he's not. Get over it you stupid shit. After all we have gone through, after all you have put me through, after getting busted for pulling out your dick to a guy you knew was a cop, after getting counseling and community service, after getting tested in 95 for AIDS, you still have not learned a damn thing. You're still doing nasty shit, you've gained weight, you're anemic, you've got wax in your ears, your eyes are gone and after 7 years of being in college, you just want to be loved? What the fuck am I going to do with you? Can you tell me that?
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