January 1st, 2014. One year ago.
"Good evening citizens of the United States of America. I am President Rick Santorum." President Santorum takes a shaky, audible breath that crackles loudly through the radio on the mahogany table to my side. "As you already know, today is a very important day, as I announce something very important. I, as your president, starting this date on next year, plan to select two teens from each state, one gay and one lesbian, from the ages of twelve and eighteen, to be placed in an arena to fight to the death in a televised event.
"This will be a required viewing of all citizens of the United States of America. The lone victor of this fight will serve as a reminder to other homosexual Americans of the kindness we demonstrate to them each day by allowing them to live."
President Santorum's vice president announces that he's left the White House gala, but I barely hear him. I am gay.
/
January 1st, 2015. Present-day.
I awake; it's cold.
My hands instinctively grope around the opposite side of my satiny bed. I'm looking for my vibrator, which I left on last night. That explains it. While it vibrated orgasmically, it leaped from my bed in an attempt to escape my asshole.
Without giving my sex toy another thought, I swing my feet off the side of my bed and immediately slide them into my fabulous stilettos that have molded to my feet.
My flaccid manhood flaps around the air as I make long strides to the bathroom.
Screw the pants, I have to wax my ass first, I think.
The thought of putting on my skin-tight leather slacks without first removing my hair is unbearable. Plus, I have to look better for the Humping. It's today, and I have to prepare. Within my bathroom, I take a look in the mirror.
And there I am. Maurice (pronounced "mar-iss," my parents did LSD back in the day) Loverpeen. My long brown hair flows until finally twisting into a nice braid. My girlfriends always say it makes me look sexy for all the hunks out there, but I don't see it. But, I do agree when they tell me my green eyes are stunning. They like - pierce people's souls or someshit. And then, there's my bangin' body. It's pretty hot. I've been known to turn the manliest of straighties into full blown ho-mo-sex-u-als.
But enough about me.
Let's talk about where I live.
My state is Tennessee - we specialize in producing cotton and racism. It's not the biggest place, but it's not the smallest, either, you should see those Rhode Island folk. Hippies.
My particular slice of Tennessee is West Tennessee. We do most of the cotton producing, so we're really the richest of the three sections. Nonetheless, we don't live like no Yanks. Every day consists of starving, picking cotton, and going to bed before the Christkeepers flip their shit. So yeah, it's not much, but it's home.
/
I rip another strip of wax off my thigh. It stings, but only enough to make me bite me lip sexily.
"Done!" I say aloud. Just in time too, as my little brother is knocking on the door.
"Maaaauuuuuuriiiiiice," he squeals, "dad says your gay ass better be outside for the Humping in less than fifteen minutes or he's taking your vibrator away."
Shit, I think, scraping the remaining wax from my nether realm. Gotta go fast.
I bolt, still nude, from the bathroom and crash into my bedroom's door.
My closet lies open, my mother, on my bed. "I laid something out for you."
Nudity was never a problem in our family.
"Thanks mom." I smile politely and select a thong from my drawer. "No crease lines, you know?"
She chuckles and leaves, allowing me to jump into my mom's fashionable outfit choice.
My skin-tight leather slacks, a Lady Gaga shirt, and a fluffy pink vest-jacket.
Damn, mom, you're good.
By the time I'm out the door, the whole crowd of sixteen has gathered around a large stage. No one stands there but a couple of Christkeepers and an oddly straight-looking woman. She's at most promiscuously bisexual. At most.
"Hello fags and faggots," she says, tapping the microphone as if the dumb bitch didn't already know it worked. "Welcome to the very first Humping!"
She waits for applause, but how could one offer any at such a moment?
"Anyway," she reaches her hand into a fishbowl and pulls out a manila envelope. She eyes it suspiciously, as it to ask, Why not just put pieces of paper in there? "Ladies first."
Of course - she pulled my name.
"Maurice Loverpeen!"
I freeze as four Christkeepers surround me, Bibles pressed to me.
Come to think of it, why Christkeepers, anyway? I attend church, I'm not Satanic. Jeez.
My legs almost fail me as I reach the staircase. I haven't been taking this seriously enough.
I could die.
The Christkeepers push me up, and I make the first step, as I ascend to what seems like the guillotine.
The dumb bitch takes my hand and raises it like I've one a gay cruise or someshit. Dumb bitch. She leaves me for the fishbowls.
"Anyway, now for the dykes~!" I heard the squiggly. Trust me on this one.
Then she pulled that bitch Shantel Jameson's name. I hate that bitch.
I hope I kill her.