Jan 14
Raptors Resurrected
A Short Story
A man with tattoos, chiseled abs, perhaps steroids, meth, cocaine, viagra, tetrahydrocannabinol or any combination of those in his system, and enough testosterone pumping through his veins to give a medium sized dog cardiac arrest is driving through an area of a city that teeters between hostile hood and suburban Eden. With enough crime to give a Brooklyn transplant hipster a riveting story to make up about his getting mugged by a drug dealer when fishing for ecstasy, the atmosphere is spiced with a dangerous charm. It’s hot outside. Passers by are sweating.
He is an ordinary American male of 2020. Common in the sexiest way. He is “Basic”, if you will. He hints at an impoverished heritage and rags to riches success story. He offers relief, especially to upper class women, that their delusion that the American Dream is alive and intact, is valid. He’s a predator in his shady, illegally tinted Corolla. He takes his statement further by having attentively souped the car up to its fullest potential saying, “I have not only been tested in the dirt but I transmute my suffering to my advantage. It was my work worn hands that handled the engine. My willingness to roll around on my back, on the concrete, and pimp out my machine to suit my preferences is a revival of rugged individualism. It was my feigned stupidity that allowed me to be underestimated by the opposition enough to secretly study my machine from a distance until I knew it as I taught myself how to get inside things and carry on the masculine code of honor. I hope to get away with as much as I can without infringing on legal motor parameters. If I’m careful, I can infringe on those rules without being caught, but that is a risk I look forward to taking.”
License plate obstructed behind a tinted windshield which sits belligerently atop the rear dash are my way of saying “Fuck the police without the pathetic, social justice warrior whininess. Seats , reclined so far as to conceal the driver and whatever fortunate or unfortunate passenger he happens to be pushing or dragging. The sound that issues from the engine is a viscous, fierce roar. For raptors died millions of years ago. Their blood, flesh and bones were pressed and welded by the hammer of time, til an alchemical synthesis produced a pure form of their bestial vitality. Vengeful against god for exterminating them, the souls of raptors hungered for life, the taste of meat, the thrill of the hunt, the gang mentality. They breach the ages, they spring forth, flowing from led pipes, ejaculating their black gold, creeping and bursting from beneath the desert floor. The desert floor caked in blood and smoldering steel (machine carcasses). Their blood is now the highest prize. It slinks a cross the globe over seas in barrels on tankers procured by Kalishnakov equipped pirates and is pumped into the capillaries of innumerable fueling stations. Through veins as black as the blood itself, men bring to life their machines. hahahah
The raptors live again! And this raptor, this black, illegally tinted Corolla, exclaims a war-cry of thirst as it prowls around the hood.
We do not see the man. Only his meaty, naturally suntanned, and racially ambiguous arms. He can be any race you want. The camera is in the place our eyes would be if we were him. What cunning deception.
We do however hear his voice. His voice is the first thing to truly disjoint our efforts to identify with this cowboy. His voice is markedly deep. Markedly apathetic. Markedly unsatisfied. He speaks as though he is half asleep. Like he has a cold or something. There is an adolescence in his timbre; a primed pubescence, a vitality, an immature sense of humor. He speaks with tremendous laziness and indifference. It is challenging to imagine this character saying or doing anything positive for his mother.
His accent is as ambiguous as his skin tone. He is heard to be anything you want him to be. Urban. Rugged. Disciplined. Entitled. Arrogant. Military or criminal.
Importantly, though he is light skinned, he’s a dark nigga.
“Nigga” could flow out of his mouth seamlessly. For it is obvious he not only is a “nigga”, he has “niggas”. Niggas who are as black and valuable as raptor blood; and sinister as he. His use of this word is nuanced and subtle, with nothing to prove. It’s flexible. It’s sexy. It gets chick’s juices flowing.
Along with nigga, he has incooporated bet, fire, bangin, dope, wilin, ops, bomb, pull up, peel out, whip, dip, 12, and so on to his vocabulary. These are signs. They signify a capacity for violence.
But we cannot help it. As he speaks, we know that he has a majestic cock. A shaft with which to pierce the finest. We intuit that the lazy, disappointed, lethargic, unphased by fairy girl bullshit is emblematic of the predatory nature of his schlong. His has a horse member. As loyal, as natural, as charged, as durable, as reluctant. For the man who blows his load upon the sight of a girl’s smile, the smell of a girl’s hair, or the subtle release of breath she emits upon allowing him to navigate deeper, wetter territory; the man who flogs himself with catholic guilt and Longs for his mother’s chastisement that he is a naughty boy, is himself a vagina. The man is a pussy. Or he has been wrecked by the pussy, and not the wrecker himself. He has no will to endure a woman’s disarming tricks. His undoing exposes a girlish self hate (or self like). Such a man, is a liability in combat.
Our wolf’s cock, on the other hand, is an embodiment of the military industrial complex. No ounce of mercy, remorse or sensitivity dwells inside it. Only carnage. With every pump, it cries, “love. Is. Dead.(and I shot it)”Just as missiles dropped atop innocent Iraqi women and children, this dick not only is indifferent toward the collateral damage, the sexual misconduct, it commits, but takes amusement in the inadvertent destruction wrought by its unpredictable strength: the moans for mercy. The cries to cease fire. The Easter eggs of a conquered city. The unconscionable and ironic promises whores will make for him to spare their lives. Nor will he be charged with, let alone convicted of war crimes. If he is, he will be pardoned by Donald Trump. The trial would have been a circus show to begin with. The Dems will chuckle and say, “I hope that meat scrap holds the Snowflake pussies over for at least a few months.”
SHOCK AND AWE
“FUCK YOU BITCH”
“FUCK YOU MOTHER FUCKER”
He glides along the pot hole laden street carefully, searching for his prey. We gather, from our perspective, he is an old hand at this. He is sniffing it out. It is as though we are watching an episode of cops. This is just another day on the job. He mumbles to the audience.
“Where are you where are you where are you? Hmmmm. We may be in business.”
Previously unknown to us, our avatar is a Lyft driver. He rolls his passenger window down and turns on a Lyft neon atop his dash. A fume of intrigue emanates from inside the retro machine over the slightly rolled down illegally tinted window and makes its way in the nostrils, through the eyes, gently across the skin, and not quite directly along the clitoris of our victim.
Despite his face being obscured, we know he is handsome by the way she reacts in the video. The window is rolled down:
“Excuse me, ma’am. Do you need a ride? I’m headed this way.”
“Um…. (lol) no I’m okay thank you.”
“I’m heading in your direction, I don’t want you sweating out in this sun come on. I’m on duty I have no customers, shits wack, I’m so bored, just give me cash or whatever and don’t worry about it. You seem chill. I’m a Lyft driver.”
“You don’t even know where I’m going.(lol)”
“If I were to take a guess youre going to a model shoot or something. All dressed up like that.”
“Oh. My. Goooooood! Ur so annoying. I’m not dressed up.” 🙈(Lol)
“I mean you got a nice dress on, what are you going on a date?”
“That’s none of ur business (lol)”
“Well just come on then I’ll drive you where you need to go. I’m sure whatever super rich, not Lyift driving guy you are on your way to hang out with wants you to come faster. I have no customers right now. Be a good girl and give me a hand.”
She poses, leaning into her right hip with her arms folded. She releases into a suggestive grin out of the corner of her mouth. Her head is cocked, letting her hair flow down one side of her neck and exposing her neck and shoulder down the other. Her golden skin glistens in the hot ghetto sun. Her wavy, wet, summer hair is auburn. It stands somewhat erect at its roots giving it a fullness. A life if it’s own. A life to be choked out of her.
Her affect is the most contradictory place in the universe. It is simultaneously yes, no and maybe. It is “someone ought shut your mouth” as well as “helloooo there fuck boy”. It is restrained, yet wars will be fought over it. It is wild and divine. Of heaven, and of hell. The woman on the brink of seduction. All the glory and all the shame in the universe exists in that look. She leans, mocking his reluctance and laziness. Reciprocating his lack of “really being anything”. Imitating his, “driving Lyft is ez and fun cuz I don’t care 🤙🏾”mocking his “I’m going to lie to your face a lure you for my own amusement.”
She stands on the brink of destruction. She is looking over the edge and likes it. With the gun in her mouth, indulging in the taste of the metal. Here he is. Our cosmic cowboy. Our wolf. Our raptor. Our hawk. Our nigga. Our player. Our boy. Our bro. Our killer. Our soldier. And do not forget, he is a killer.
“Perhaps he’s got weed. Maybe that’s what he’s trying to do. Sell me some weed. I could use some weed. I bet he has good weed. He looks like he knows what he’s doing. Maybe he just wants to talk. Play some music. Joke around. Flirt. Maybe he wants to fuck me. Oh my god this guy is trying to fuck me. I can’t get in that car. He’s so hot. It’s only a 30 minute walk. I can’t get in that car.”
“Where r u driving? Like originally (lol) where were u going?!.” 😭😭😭
Still in defense, her panties may as well be off. Her hands are crossed. Her speech. Is rushed. Her skin is flushed. Her nipples are hard. Her pussy is wet. She’s not wearing a bra. Sweat trickles down the swell of her back. Her voice is shrill and her breathing is rapid. Her eyes move to conceal the horrible fact that, yes, she too had the idea. His idea.
Her question is all the information our warhawk needs to know. Yes. She indeed is a dirty little whore. And little she is.
“God you’re like so sus, if you don’t want a ride that’s fine I just saw you, beautiful girl like you, this isn’t the nicest area, it’s hot as fuck out, people get, you know, it feels like somethings about to pop off I don’t know.”
She comes over the open window, revealing the cleavage of her perky, smaller than average breasts that are athletically wrapped in a ruffled sundress.
She mocks his lies “somethings about to pop off?”😏
In a low tone, “yeah. Somethings about to pop off, I don’t know. There were shootings here.”
“A shooting”😏
“Yeah like last night. My boy was telling me niggas was acting crazy.”
“Your boy”😏
With every statement she mocks him and takes potshots at him with eyes that say “you fucking asshole.”
“Yeah like. That’s what I’m saying, pretty girl like you can’t be walking out here.”
(Pause)
“I’m going to Oxy.”
“Jump in. Oxy yeah. You was tryna walk that whole shit? Damn. I mean you look like a sporty chick but…”
“(Lol) yeah I like the walk it’s a good workout.”
“You work out huh?”
“Yeah… I’m a dancer.”
“No shit? I thought you was a model you know. Your so sexy. Swore I coulda seen you somewhere.”
“(Lol) thank youuuu 🙈. Stop tho.”
“So what you going to Oxy for?”
“I am a student there.”
“For real? Damn you smart too. Oxy a good school. Mad white people and shit. What you study?”
“(Lol) I hope you don’t mean me(lol)”
“Shit. You ain’t white? What. You look like you some Puerto Rican chick you got that body that skin.”
“My dad is Bosnian and my mother is Greek(Lol)”
“Damn girl I ain’t know Bosnian chicks come out lookin like you.”
“Oh my god stop(lol). Wtf did I tell you?🙈
“Shit this my car I say what I want. You got problem you can get the fuck out fr I’m not tryna fuck around with someone mad weird lol. I’m just fuckin with you all I’m saying, I’m just saying my girl would not wanna see you in my car”
“What?(Lol)”😷
“She gets mad jealous and shit. Fuckin hate that. Especially Bosnian girls. Ok I’m done.”
“Your too much” she slaps his arm
With his hand on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road he grabs her arm.
“Oh that’s how you wanna play. You wanna hit and shit? Get the fuck out my car I’ll call the cops.”
She gasps and then let’s out a juicy laugh
“Ouch! (Lol) oh my god your grip is so tight.”
“That’s what you get bitch you wanna fucking play. Let’s see whose the tight one.”
“Oh u wanna fuck me? 😋 Huh? What about my boyfriiieeeeend. 🤭I’m gonna be laaaatttteee for my daaaaatteee.”she says in a winey, bratty, self deprecating tone.
“Girl you ain’t going no fuckin where until you ride this dick.”
Still steering, he pulls her hand to his cock.
“Fuck… uhh🤭… wtf are you talking about ?! (lol)”
She wraps her hand around his full, almost suede, tanned, slick surfaced, uncircumcised(that ones important) dark dick and looks down at it like a child opening the birthday present they’ve always wanted but didn’t expect they’d actually get.
“Wooooow oh my god daddy, your so fuckinggg big.”
“Oooh taste that babe. That’s fucking right. Shit your tongue feels so fucking good on my cock
“Ahhhhh” (Lol, kisses it)😘Mmmmm. 😋Mhm? (Lol)”
She starts sucking his right nut and looking up at him like a puppy that wants you to sneak her an extra treat.
I could go on in this vein(or on this vein rather) but I’m currently on a plane and, in the words of Zach Galifinakis, masturbation on airplanes is shameful. Also, I hope we all get the picture.
However.
They find an abandoned lot to park in. By this point her dress is still on, the straps down revealing her breasts, and as she mounts our Minotaur, she rests her left arm around his neck and holds the bottom of her dress up, opening herself to him, revealing what she is, gifting him her ass and pussy, surrendering to his power, she clasps the bottom of her dress in trembling fingers of ecstasy. Her gesture, succumbing to complete vulnerability, pulling back the shroud of heaven that is her white, floral, ruffled sundress, and allowing this soldier coming back from war to take her. To truly know her. To get her to admit it. The straps of her dress slowly unfold revealing the full crescent of her shoulder.
His balls are like sand bags behind which is mounted a relentless 50 cal heavy machine gun. His balls appear to be the heaviest part of his body. While their color is darker that his penis, the centers of his balls, like perfectly ripe grapes, are pale, reflective. His balls are ridden in concert, not as though they are separate from the penis, but that they too are the penis. As these two make love, his fully loaded fruits dance with the woman’s ass and threaten to implant her with life. His penis strokes her with great flexibility and athleticism like a tail attached to his abs. His penis seems to spring forth directly connected to his core and pecks. With every stroke, she is entering deeper into his soul. Into his male glory. The glory of a killer.
And then she looks at him, kissing him gently, settling in, like sun briefly peaking from behind storm clouds, like a frantic butterfly resting on a daffodil, and says “I knew this is what you wanted.”
In this moment ladies and gentleman, something horrible happens. Perhaps you may not see it as horrible, but I do. This is a porno. We know these are actors. We know this is staged. Scripted. We know that the girl is getting paid, perhaps a shameful amount of money to do this. Maybe she was told the tape would never be seen. But in that moment, when she asks that question, both he and she( not the characters, but the real images) have forgotten the money. They have even forgotten the cameras. For they have born witness to something much more valuable than money could ever buy, even if is over the course of a few dozen heartbeats, seven words, five gentle strokes, and a handful of oxygen rich shared breaths. They are the only two souls in the universe. Souls that have drank together from the divine chalice. The chains of transaction, the agony of impending death, the pain of one’s efforts to sincerely love family, the horror of disease, death, old age, evil, every disagreement between you and a loved one, every failure, every insecurity, all maya, all , all beaurocratic burdens, all facades you woefully wear, these two transcend ultimately. Over the course of seven deadly words seven deadly words.
Deadly due to the inevitable nature of these lovers’ encounter. Death to us a seductress. Death too will whisper this in your ear at your final second. Death too was driving in the same direction. Death too will tell you no at the same time it cries yes.
Our fateful lovers are actors. Perhaps they both would claim never to engage in such a spontaneous, risky affair in real life. In real life? Then what did we see on camera? Was that digital animation? No. That was real life. And her words, “I knew this is what you wanted.” For is not that statement true? Surely that is a true statement regarding the male actor’s agenda concealed in the guise of transaction Surely that is a real rock hard erection between that man’s legs. Surely her vagina is as wet as the Biafra. Surely their exchange of breath and words of love come from true hearts. As she whispers in this actor’s ear, “I know this is what you wanted” she is talking about her character as well as talking about herself. The woman walking to a date dressed to kill, as well as the woman who agreed to take the cash before the cameras were rolling. Who is she?
Perhaps these two even have lovers in real life. Lovers who offer a kind of “Stanislavskyan” opportunity for the actors discussion around their infidelity. But what would their lovers think if they were to watch this video? To see her notice a call from her anxious, worried boyfriend. She hears the ring,, picks up the phone, sees the name and declines the call, all without missing a bounce to the beat of our Lyft driver’s fucking her. What he think then? Of the flowers he’s bought her. The Valentine’s Day, snowy night in the city. Their favorite Netflix movie? Cooking together? The sentimental card? How much her mom likes him? Playing with her dog? What about all the times? Pouring his heart out to her? Telling her he loves her before they go to sleep? The way she looks as she sleeps in the morning, angelic, of heaven itself, with serene lip corners and a softened, timid brow. Her hair. Her stupid laugh? Winter nights indoors with snow accumulating outside.
“Guess we will miss work tomorrow. Let’s sleep in babe. Do we have eggs? Good we have eggs. Haven’t we been waiting to rewatch Rosemary’s Baby? I think tonight’s the perfect night! Fuck I wish we had wine though.”
“(Lol) You can’t drive but you can probably walk(lol).”😏
He looks at her with an ambiguous stare and abruptly leaves the room. He returns outfitting a jacket, scarf, gloves and winter hat maintaining a deadpan, matter of factnesss.
“(Lol) ohmygoddd babe! 🙈I was kidding. Don’t go out there ur gonna die.”😢
She rushes over to him. With her hands on his upper zipper there is a suggestion that she is going to remove his coat for him and have him stay in. She looks up at him, longingly. Her eyes whimper. Perhaps she has one foot raised to complete our Disney shillouette.
But she wants wine too. This is a complicated ritual.
“This is just how much of an alcoholic I am.😝” He kisses her and rushes out of the door forcing a final, cringeworthy “I’m doing it! Look at me I’m so fun!” Look before he slams it. This heartbreakingly futile attempt to express his masculinity is mysteriously reciprocated by her.
“I’ll have a surprise for you when you get back my brave brave man.”😍😍😍
Perhaps it was that painfully forced imitation of spontaneity that convinced our actress to get in the car. To throw her phone after seeing he was calling her. Even to mention it to her active lover saying “uuuh, my fucking boyfriend (lol) your cock is soooo much better”
These two actors, when the camera stops rolling, in theory, exchange payment and say “thanks! That was so fun. Your so hot.”
But who are we to say this is a film? A fiction? As a matter of fact, it seems to be the opposite. It seems realer than real. How do? Not only are these two, anonymous individuals, engaging in real acts, they are agreeing to simulate their mutual imagined fantasy. They are staging an event they both would deny ever actually giving over to, yet perhaps is their most compelling sexual fantasy. Another level of their hyper reality is the opportunity others have to anonymously spectate this extremely private, extremely intimate, and extremely taboo (sinful) act. The viewer becomes a judge of sorts. How does their truth hold up? How does their passion hold up?
What’s worse is, the judges, the audience, the critics of this scene, no matter how much more they want it, no matter how horny they are, they were NEVER there and NEVER will be. The two actors are witnessed drinking from the chalice of the divine, and while the viewer can abuse his imagination and pretend to, he never can. He is a faceless, nameless, screen. He turns into a number on the bottom left corner of the video. This is how far his erection and orgasm go. The 2662th viewer that happened to give the video a thumbs up, placing its rating at 76% approval. That is all he is. And he will be that, to the internet, for all eternity. Shackled to his impatience and self loathing. He is an emoticon. He is a man, reclined. Pushed back. Dejected. Depressed. Suicidal. Perhaps dead by the time you look at the viewer count. Without ambition. He has been cheated on by his girlfriend and he has found refuge in the jeenee of pornography. Caught in the spiders web, he finds that the woman deciding to cheat on her lame boyfriend who is waiting for her with flowers, the girl who showed up late to the date suspiciously sweaty, the girl who broke up with him a month later, that girl is the girl he is watching. The phone call the girl receives before throwing her phone away as she rides the cock of this Lyft driver is the phone call he made.
