It's amazing what you can get away with if people think you're blind. The idea came to me sometime in highschool after my mom got her pupils dilated for some eye exam. It seems like so long ago; I have trouble remembering some of the details, but basically my mom was stumbling around the house knocking into stuff. All I could think was, Hey, maybe I could use this to get a hold of some boobs. You know, I was like 17 and horny all the time.

So here I am: 34 and horny all the time. Still using a lot of the same old tricks, but of course I've picked up some new ones along the way. I learned pretty quick that one of those red and white walking sticks is a must. Obviously sunglasses are important too. I opted for some really shiny aviators so women couldn't see my eyes. They seemed to get exceptionally creeped out when they could tell I was staring at them while I was rubbing up against them on the bus. It also helps to be a little messy. I'm not saying that blind people are; I'm just saying it's easier to follow the stereotype when your shirt is off a button or there's ketchup all over the cuffs of your sleeves. I've learned it helps to trip a little when you're getting on the bus or the subway. Just try to look as pathetic as possible without looking overly handicapped. You don't want people offering to help -- that's how you end up having a seat chosen for you. No... you want to be able to get the prime spot standing behind some hot business lady in a tight skirt, so every time the bus hits a bump or goes around a corner your hand is smacking up against her ass. This one time -- hard stop -- bam, palming both of this chick's cheeks. And she apologizes to me!   

Now I don't want to sound too cocky, but I've molested well over two hundred and fifty girls over the last 17 years of my life. That's a conservative figure. I mean, if I was reckless I'm sure I could have gotten even more. I'm careful though. You get to riding the same bus or train everyday and people start to get suspicious as to why your hand always ends up by their vagina. I don't have time to remember every girl I grope, so the best plan is to spread around my encounters. That's not to say I haven't gotten caught.   

So I'm chasing down this hot brunette I saw at a McDonald's, smacking everyone in the shins with my stick while I half jog behind to keep up. Five blocks later I think I lost her, but a second later I can hear the clicking of her high heels echoing off the stairs down to the Blue Line subway. I start shoving my way down the stairs, through the crowd, in pursuit, and sure people are getting pissed, but once they see I'm blind, and maybe a little crazy they get out of the way quick. Yell something histarically about a missing kid, and even the toughest crowds start to part. I whip around a corner and get her back in sight. She slides her fair card through the reader and pushes through the turnstyle. I do my best "I'm blind and lost impression" and fumble around until I flop over a turnstyle -- If I wanted to pay for something like this I'd go to a strip club. I watch as the doors start to close on the subway, with that fine piece of ass on the other side, and with the last burst of speed I can muster, and swinging my walking stick waist high so people get the point, I fall in through the door just before it finishes closing. In no particular direction, I ask which bus I'm on. After a pause, someone tells me I'm on the Blue Line, and that it's a subway. I'm pretty sure my disguise is complete.   

I stagger around for a bit so that I can take up position behind my target. I can already smell her perfume, and quickly realize that the pants I'm wearing are going to make it very hard to hide my throbbing erection; first mistake of the day: wearing sweatpants. So now, as I make my way over to the spot behind her, I'm hitting people with two sticks. They're still getting out of the way, but now I'm starting to get some sour looks. A smart person would have given up at this point, or atleast been more careful. Here I am, though, thinking almost entirely with my dick, drawing way too much attention, and all that's on my mind is rubbing up against this girl. As the train pulls out, I intentionally fall forward. Score one for me. Not full on butt, but I got a nice feel of her bony hips. She reacts less than I expected. Around the first corner I pretend to fall down, hoping to get her to turn around so I can grab a hold of her tits. She only turns slightly, and all the tension is making me even harder. A stain is starting to leak through my sweatpants, and I'm trying to figure out my next course of action. This bitch just isn't cooperating. The subway is about to pull into the first station, and I'm starting to consider my first grab and run in weeks. But that's never as fulfilling as toughing out a fifteen minute ride, trying to outsmart your opponent. Sure it will give me some pleasure, but rushing off to some bathroom after so I can jack off just isn't the same. I want to finish here, with her. And that was my second mistake: being overly greedy. As the train stops, I cup my hand and gently and rythmically tap her ass. This is to give the illusion that it's just a bag or briefcase -- works more than you would think. The train stops, passengers exchange spots between outside and in, and my last chance to bail passes. The train starts up, and I use the old "Oh no, I'm falling backwards" trick to get a full reach around. I drop my stick and plant both hands firmly on her breasts. I hold on longer than I should, but not too long, the whole time gently grinding on her ass, and I am in heaven.   

Then, as I let go, I realize my third and fourth mistake -- she turns around and two things happen. First: we make eye contact. Usually I would be protected from this by my sunglasses, but apparently they fell off, probably at the turnstyle. Blind people rarely make direct eye contact because they don't know where to look. People may not actively think of this, or even know it, but when it happens, they know something is fishy. I immediately get a horrified look from her. And the second thing is: well, it turns out it's my sister. I realize that I never did get a good look at her face during all of this. My dick goes limp pretty fast, but the damage is already done -- I can feel it running down my legs, glueing my sweatpants to my leg hair. She lets out a gasp and yells, "MIKE!" Everyone turns; the mess running down the front of my pants is clearly visible, and people start to back away. I haven't seen Denise in months.Who would have thought we would meet like this? I just kind of stare at her, awkwardly, and, obviously, she is speechless. As the train pulls into the next station, I plan my escape. The voice over the PA system tells me that we're at the 22nd street station, and the "ding" sound lets me know that the door is opening. I give my sister a wry smile, check to make sure the train door is open, reach out and squeeze both her tits one last time, bolt for the exit, and smack her ass on the way by. A couple minutes later I'm flushing a load down one of the station's toilets.

In my eyes there are six levels of intoxication. There are states above the six I am about to outline, but I consider those beyond intoxication -- the ones where you land in the hospital.

Level 1: Sober. It's probably not the way you want to be, but it works for most common chores such as working or raising a family. This is your base state, homeostasis. You may not like it but the average person spends more than 70% of their life completely sober.

Level 2: A quick drink. This is meeting a friends before class to grab a beer so you can make it through another calculus lecture. OK, maybe two beers.

Level 3: Family Events. This is the Christmas where you don't want to embarass yourself infront of Grandpa and Grandma, but you still manage to get down five beers before the night is up. A good start, but just enough to take the edge off of your annoying aunt.

Level 4: Standard night out. As implied, this is your usual night out. Usually accompanied by a cab or friend ride home -- on nights of lack of judgment, lack of money, or lack of friends, maybe not, but it's probably a good idea after 6 beers and a shot of tequilla.

Level 5: To get drunk. This is when you stop on the way to the bar or party to pick up a forty of cheap beer and slam it before going inside. Hell if it's a long ride maybe even pick up two. Upon arrival you avoid time wasters like hugs and hello to go straight for the alcohol -- which at this point is usually liquor since your stomach is already full of beer. The next morning you know you got home, but you aren't really sure how. Some clothes may be missing, and your wallet is short $30 from the lemon drops you bought the group of ladies accross the bar.

Level 6: Intoxication. This is drinking beer in the shower while you're getting ready. You know the night is going to be rough, but you're mentally prepared. You shutgun a sixteen ounce can of miller light in your kitchen, chase it with a redbull, and chase that with a pull of vodka straight from the bottle. By the time you make it to the front door you're already considering calling a cab just to take you accross the street to your friend's car. You empty a couple of airplane bottles of rum on your way to wherever you're going. You haven't even started your night yet and you're not sure how you got to the car. The whole thing ends somewhere between seven and nine hours later; you only know because it was when the last drunk dial call was made from your cellphone. You wake up wondering where you are, clutching an empty bottle of Jack and your neighbor's dog, even though it turns out you did somehow make it home. You don't have a shirt on, but you are wearing sunglasses. There's three messages from your boss, the last one saying your fired for atrocious things he saw on the security camera, and then one from your grandma wondering what the message you left at 5am said. Your head is splitting and your pants are covered with piss. For some reason there's a used condom in your back pocket. Your ass kind of hurts; you hope it was from a fall.

The sky was thick with fog, and the moon had trouble getting any light to earth. Luckily I had my night vision goggles.

I was in the bushes across from my new neighbor's house, masturbating. I thought he was pretty cute, but I never really saw him up close. At this point, though, I was so horny it didn't even matter.

He had just moved in a week ago. I figured he probably had a wife because the house was way too big for just one person; the only problem was I never saw anyone except him come and go.

On this particular night he was sitting on the couch watching football. No shirt, boxers, and a can of beer in his left hand. I had never gotten a handjob from a lefty before -- I wondered if it would feel better, as I switched to masturbating with my other hand.

Just as I was about to blow my load all over the bush I was in, a car pulled around the corner. The high-beams lit up my shocked face; it was too late. I started to cum all over the bush and my hands. I could feel chunks of jizz dropping down onto my bare feet. As I let out a long, high pitched moan, the last of my sperm drizzled out of the end of my dick.

The car pulled into my driveway and turned off the lights. My mom got out and went inside. I know she saw me that night, there was no way she didn't -- it was winter, and the bush didn't have any leaves. I gathered up my pile of clothes and went inside. She was already in her bedroom.

I can't be sure, but I thought I heard crying.

So I was sleeping happily in my bed at around 7:00am, several hours before I had to wake up, when a text message tears me from my sleep. The number was unfamiliar, and, unless they had just read my blog "Memories," relatively innaccurate. So I thought I would have some fun. This might have been one of those "you would have had to be there situations" or part of sleep depravel, but I found it pretty funny. So here is an exact transcript of what happened:

�

Stranger: Hey girl

me: Why hello thur

Stranger: How r u

me: Good how are you?

Stranger: Good what u up 2

me: Sleeping in my bed

Stranger: U still in bed

Stranger: What u wearing

me: Boxers and a t shirt

Stranger: No panties

me: No i usually don't wear those...

Stranger: any 1 home

me: Idk if my mom left yet

Stranger: U shave

me: No not yet. I think i will later. My face is kind of rough

Stranger: Your boxers off

me: No there still on. It's pretty cold in my room.

�(20 minute pause)

Stranger: R u a girl

me: nope

Stranger: no no u r not so y r u playing games not happy with who u r

me: I thought i made a friend

Stranger: Get help kid!!

me: I put on my robe and wizard hat

stranger: Go away

me: You're the one who woke me up and started talking dirty. Do you usually do that to strange men?

stranger: Listen i was try to talk 2 a friend u miss lead me what ever happen 2 sorry wrong number u always miss lead people just 2 make friends

me: I never miss lead you. I told you what i was wearing, and that i hadn't shaved. I said i don't wear panties. I haven't lied about anything.

stranger: I text hey girl u r not a girl

me: I never said i was. I was just excited to talk to someone. I never get to anymore.

stranger: Now never text me again

me: Ugh i thought talking to you for an hour would mean something :( but if you're going to be Mr. Cranky pants i'm going back to sleep.

�

�

I am curious, though, as to who gets that personal with someone whose number they aren't 100% sure on. Either way, I've kept his number in hopes of more laughs down the road.

He pressed the mask firmly onto my face. I started to panic; maybe coming here had been a bad idea. The constant buzz of the gas being forced into my mouth and nose began to overthrow my senses. I tried to to move, to fight, to protest, but it was too late -- the cocktail of anesthetics and sedatives was too much for my body to handle. I just stared up, and a bright light stared back, rapidly consuming my peripheral vision with a white blanket of nothingness.

I couldn't really feel the syringe going into my arm, but I knew it was there. I couldn't really feel the drugs that were being pumped into my veins, either, but I knew those were there, too. Over the orchestra of auditory and visual distortions, I heard the man above me say, "This should be the last thing you remember," as he stretched the elastic of the mask over the top of my head.

As the last of my vision was consumed, I made one last strain to see the tray of scalpals, clamps, surgical tubing, and other utensils that I had no idea the use for that was positioned next to me. A euphoric wave passed through my body and rippled through my vision. And then nothing.

Or atleast nothing I could perceive. It seemed like minutes -- maybe it was. I didn't know what exactly they had planned for me. I couldn't even remember how I got here. Without any understanding of when, I returned to the room. My brain hurt, but I couldn't feel anything else. The sweat on my bare chest reflected the burning light above me, and my entire body was hot from its energy. I strained to move, to call for help, but no one was there with me.

The tools on the tray next to me had been replaced with bloodied gauze. "What the hell did they do to me?" I thought. As I continued to regain consciousness, I tried to stand up but an alarm went off and two men in white coats ran in. They pushed me down onto the table and told me not to move.

Slowly my memory came back. I started to remember why I had come here in the first place. I asked, "Is my-"

"Yes we took care of it," one of the men said before I could finish.

"So everything is fine?" I asked.

"Yes," he said," the sex change operation was a success."

I slowly ran my hand over my tender, sweaty nipples to feel the new bumps protruding from my chest. I cupped them gently and smiled. I slowly ran my hand down my abdomen to where my penis used to be. I couldn't feel the shape of my new vagina through the bandage and gauze, but I was certain that the unsightly male genitalia had been removed.

"Thank you," I said.

The surgeon held up my severed penis. "What should I do with this?" he asked.

"I'd like to keep it. I think that my boyfriend would like it for the memories."

He put my removed organ into a jar of formaldehyde, screwed on the lid and handed it to me.

"Thank you," I said again.

"You're welcome Jackie."

So it's that time of the year again: when I send out my college applications. I haven't gotten into any of the universities within 100 miles of my house for the last three years, so I'm really hoping I get accepted this year! I have my eyes on a pretty nice county technical college just across town. I've sent them tons of letters over the last year, probably about three a day, addressed from different people saying that they should let Jake in. I hope they fall for it! I even addressed one from President Bush.

But, after writing so many applications, and all of those letters, too, I just can't seem to write an essay that I like. I've always liked writing a lot so I'm pretty creative. I really want to wow them, so I thought maybe I would try to write more of a short story instead of a traditional�essay.�I'll give you what I have so far and maybe you all can tell me if you like it or not, and what I should or shouldn't change:

�

WCTC Admissions:

In lieu of a tradional essay, I have decided to show off my creative talents and write a short story about how I feel I'll do in college. I hope you enjoy!

The A-

I could feel my biceps twitch as I plunged the blade deeper and deeper into the mess of guts that used to be my professor. The last of his life left his eyes with a violent spasm and the complete evacuation of his bowels. The rest of the class looked on with terror, but I wasn't done yet. I reached into the�gaping hole I left in his abdomen and pulled out the bloody, intertwined connection of intestines, cutting it loose at each end. I tied one end around the neck of the limp body that used to be Professor Sachs, and the other end around my waist. I marched my way up the center aisle of the lecture hall, the burden of dragging the 200 pound lifeless body made easy by the over saturation of adrenaline in my system.

The thick trail of blood, spotted with chunks of flesh and pus, made its way from the spot where I attacked Professor Sachs, from behind the projector screen, up through the�aisle, weaving through the halls, and finally ended at where I stood: the parking lot adjacent to the chemistry building. I took a moment to watch the beauty of the�pure white flecks of snow melt on the cooling body, its face contorted with pain, but still serene in death.

Sirens echoed through the empty passage ways between buildings as�I went to work.�I removed the saw from my backpack and cut through the thick flesh of his hamstring, down through the femur, and out the other side to completely sever his leg -- I did the same to remove his other. I arranged them in a V shape on the red stained snow. I removed both of his arms in the same fashion, using one to fill in the V and make an A, and the other to make the minus sign: to signify the A- this professor had�given me last semester. I never knew that I would take things this far when I failed on my promise to myself to maintain a 4.0 through college.

But that's how fucking serious I am about doing well at your school.

I gently pressed the blade I had used to kill him into my neck, and, as the blood flowed freely down my bare chest, I felt relief. I could never fail myself again. The cool touch of the snow covered asphalt was the last thing I ever felt.

--Jake

�

�

Hey everyone!

Sorry I couldn't blog this weekend, I was so busy! I'll have to keep this short, too, so I can stop at Walgreens to get my hemorrhoid cream before I work (otherwise I spend the whole shift scratching my slightly prolapsed asshole, lol!)

So Friday night I DJed with my friend at a Goth / Industrial Club. It was pretty fun. We played some VNV Nation, some KMFDM, a little Infected Mushroom to mix things up. It wasn't very busy because it was snowing, but I met a guy named Mike who wore a gas mask most of the night. I thought it was really hot! Before I left, Mike came up into the DJ booth, took off the canister on the gas mask and gave me a blowjob through the hole. It was pretty cool, but I guess it took him a while to get all the sperm stains out of the antique rubber. Later on, back at my place, I got really drunk and threw up all over him. He got mad and left. I haven't heard from him since. I hope he calls me back soon!

Saturday was kind of depressing -- I had to go to a funeral for my sister's still born child. It was weird because I didn't even know it, I guess none of us did. My sister cried the whole time but I just didn't care. That's what she gets for being pregnant at 14.�Maybe I was predisposed thinking about Mike. I don't know. On the way out my friend, the one who got her pregnant,�and I wrecked the bathroom at the funeral home. That cheered me up. That night we got drunk and drove around for a while but I ran out of gas so we went home and watched A Scanner Darkly.

Sunday I worked for a little while in the morning, but my asshole really itched. I totally forgot to get cream before work. IT SUCKED! No one left me any tips, and a few customers walked out. I guess they were really mad and thought the food had my shit all over it (well, maybe some of it did haha!). My manager said that if I don't fix the problem he would have to fire me, but I gave him a blowjob, and then he apologized because�my hemorrhoids were mostly his fault. I told him to put on more lube! So that's why I really have to stop and get the cream tonight. Well, if I get a chance I'll blog a little bit when I get back, otherwise: hopefully I talk to you all soon!

�

Bye everyone!

     We all have some sort of quirk when we use a public bathroom; you may not even notice yours anymore. Some people line the seat with toilet paper, some people use a piece of toilet paper to flush so they don't have to touch the handle. Some people wash their hands excessively, use paper towel to open the door. These should be considered normal habits.

     I, however, am part of a different breed. We're few and far apart, but nearly everyone who has used a public bathroom has been affected by us in some way, at some time. I'm sure you know the feeling; that gas station bathroom that has just been completely wrecked, a vile mess. Something you would never imagine using except that you're going to piss your pants if you don't. You pull up your pant legs, maybe even close an eye. You plug your nose. We stop girls from sitting on the toilet, we make men go back outside to relieve themselves.

 To us it's an art. We can recognize each other's work -- when we walk in, we think to ourselves, "He's been here." And then we smile. We leave things how they are because everything has been done for a reason. That other person has left things exactly how they wanted, and I sure don't want to be the one to ruin it. I want to leave it there for others to enjoy.

 This is my artwork:

     Whenever I have to piss I go into a stall. It doesn't matter if a whole row of urinals is open and there's a ten minute line for a stall. I'll wait. After all, I'm not there to simply expell waste; I'm there to express myself. The first thing I'll do upon entering the stall is to remove the toilet paper roll and throw it into the toilet bowl. If the paper is locked then I'll unravel it all and put it in. I won't actually use the toilet, and obviously I'll never flush. My urine is saved for the walls and floor. My goal is always to make a circular shape starting at the front base of the toilet, moving clockwise up the wall, over the toilet, down the wall on the other side, and back around front on the floor. I always stop back where I started. If I still have to piss I hold it. I've never ran out. I choose stalls because it holds the smell in. I want the particiapant's nose to get the full experience of the ammonia burning their olfactory system. I'll spit on, in particular order, the flush handle, the toilet paper roll in the toilet, and, after opening it to get out, the door handle. I close the door behind me to preserve the smell.

     I prefer sinks with manual faucets so I can leave them running. If I have the time, I'll write over the sensor of automatic sinks with a black sharpie so they stop working.

    I'll empty as much soap onto the floor or counter as I can in a short period of time. I never actually wash my hands. I spit on the mirror. If I can get the paper towel roll out, or if it's just a stack I'll put it into the running sink. If it's locked I take as much as I can and do the same. I save one piece and cover it with soap to smear on the door handle on my way out. I usually just drop the paper onto the floor outside the door, but sometimes special occasions like restaurants require more careful placement onto a table. I try to make it look like it belongs. I'll fold it neatly and place it on top of a napkin or delicately twist it into wine glass.

     Everything is for a reason.

     Obviously there is only so much you can do with urine. The real masterpieces, the elegant orchestras of smell, sight and touch can only be achieved with solid matter.

     Like I said, I always use stalls. It holds in the smell. Once I'm in I begin to undress. I prefer to deal with this type of artwork completely naked. I feel it gives me more freedom. If there's a hook I'll hang my clothes, otherwise I'll hang them over the door. I don't care how busy the bathroom is. I want people to know I mean serious business. You're a lot less likely to be interrupted when people know you're naked. I have no shame; I'm proud of my work: I want to share the thrill of creating it with everyone.

     I wear white brief underwear, and I always make sure to shit a little bit into them before starting my concerto. I'll dig up into my asshole with them to make sure they're marked well -- this is my calling card. The stained underwear are placed onto the tank of the toilet. If there isn't a tank, I'll hang them over the pipes, brown side up. I step my bare feet up onto the seat of the toilet and grasp the top of the walls to the stall for balance. I always shit standing up; it makes the most splash. I face the wall that the toilet is on. I don't want my concentration to be broken by seeing what other people are doing. It's almost impossible to get everything in from three feet up so I don't even bother trying. A lot of it runs down my legs, some ends up on the floor. It always seems like the bulk of it ends up on the toilet seat. I tend to grunt while I'm doing this. I eat a lot of junk food and it makes my bowel movements hard to push out. I avoid foods high in fiber because it throws off my rhythm.

     Once I'm done I'll step down from my podium and, if I can, take out the roll of toilet paper and wipe my ass and legs and feet with it. If I can't get it out I simply unroll it all. I always make sure to smear some of my waste on all four walls of the stall, onto the flush handle, and, once I've put on my pants and opened the door, I smear some onto that handle as well. I only put on my pants when I leave. My chest is usually sweating and I don't want to get pit stains on my nice shirts. I'll take about half of the paper towel from the dispensor and wet it with water from the sink. After I wipe my entire chest and back down with it, I dry myself off with the other half. I place the spent paper towel into the sink and, if I can, leave it running. I'll spit onto the mirror and put my socks and shoes and shirt back on. I'll empty as much of the soap as I can, but again, I never wash my hands. On my way out I kick over the garbage (I only do this when I shit). If there is any excrement left on my hands, I'll make swirly patterns with it on the walls on my way out. If there's a light switch I turn off the lights, otherwise I do my best to remove the bulbs I can reach.

     And then I leave, and I never go back. I never check up on my work, and I never use the same bathroom twice. Each time it ends up a little different, but still, others will recognize my work.

     We all have our public restroom quirks, and some of us don't even notice ours anymore.

Some of you may already understand the concept of Six Degrees of Seperation, but since this is eBaum's World, most of you probably don't. To the latter I'll suggest Google, although your grasp of that concept upon which my concept is based on is in almost no way vital to understanding my theory. But still, maybe it would be nice for some of you to learn something -- I know you won't from the rest of this post.

So here it is, I'll make it simple: Just as Six Degrees of Seperation makes a link between you and billions of other�lifeforms, as does my idea; except that my lifeforms are harder to see, and are better counted with trillions.

It is my belief that atleast one man out of every six whose hand you shake has recently masturbated with it, and simply wiped, not washed, his ejaculate off -- some may not even bother with either and opt to just leave it crusted down their fore arm hair and between their fingers. Maybe they rubbed one off under their desk at work and just wiped the excess sperm onto the inside of their pants. Perhaps they quick jerked it in the bathroom during Christmas dinner. Maybe they're masturbating right now, ready to blow their load all over the keyboard.

Now, perhaps the sperm is dead; OK, most likely the sperm is dead, but, in death, it will still be carted around from hand to hand, run through hair, rubbed on backs, poked in eyes. You probably just swallowed some with the BBQ sauce you're licking off your finger.

And with each of those faitful one in six, a small part of our crusted life essence is passed along. Invisible children playing on the cuticles of the world.

In my business I shake hands a lot. A part of me is probably still in Japan, Russia, Switzerland -- always spreading with each new handshake. I'm on your sushi, in your vodka, part of your chocolates.

Dead, but always spreading.

Shake my hand.

�

At 3pm it started to snow. Not really what I had in mind. I called my friend to make sure we were still on for meeting up at his garage to replace my brake pads. I had let them go for too long and he was worried about me dying or something. He always cared too much about my safety, but that's how things had been since we met two years ago.

We met up at the Pick n Save by his house to pick up some beer, and then I followed him to the garage. He always acted like I didn't know the way even though I had been there dozens of times before.

The snow fell�heavily, my windshield wipers were set to high, and�my friend was�drifting his car back and forth�on the�narrow street. He�had a rear wheel drive Mustang that he�had done a fair amount of work on, and was well apt at handling it even in these very slippery conditions. He enjoyed sliding�his car around turns, but as soon as I tried to do the same he called�to tell me not to because he was�worried I might�hurt myself. I had a�97 audi A4 with some work done, but nothing spectacular.

I think maybe that's what I liked so much about him -- that he truly cared. He was always there for me, during break ups, when my mom died. We would go out drinking. I was just happy this night to get to spend�time with him under�normal conditions.

After he�almost put it into a couple of ditches, and narrowly missed�a tow truck we made it to the garage. Two of his friends were there. I kind of knew them from highschool.

We heated up the car to get all the snow off and put it up on stands. We each took off a wheel, and then took a break. I had a couple beers, I think my friend had two as well. We did power turns in the parking lot of the garage in his car. One of the other guys was screwing around on a mini dirt bike he owned.

About 45 minutes later we went back to work on the car. I didn't really know what I was doing, and there were only enough tools for two of us to be working on the brake pads at once, so since the other guys had more experience,�my friend�and I just sat by the heater and talked about school and whatever while we had another beer. They finished up the rear breaks and decided to take another break. I popped open another beer, took a sip, and ran outside to quick piss. I tried writing FUCK in the snow, but the K got messed up and it looked stupid. Just as I was heading back my friend came out to piss, too.

I came back in and sat down. I was starting to feel kind of buzzed from the drinking. I took a big gulp of my beer. It tasted kind of weird so I asked if anyone else's tasted bad (I had bought the beer for them as a thank you for the breaks, so I guess I was worried some of it was bad).�The two guys�said no. I took another sip. It still tasted weird so I got up to throw it out and grab a new one. My friend was back, sitting down, and drinking again.�When I tried to stand up, though, I started to feel really drunk -- a lot more than I should be after just a few beers. Everything was really blurry and I started to feel sick. Once I got to the garbage I tossed the half empty can into it, but before I could even take another step closer I puked all of the side of the metal trash can. Without really knowing what was going on I reached for a broom that I think was nearby. I missed the broom, though, and fell flat on the oily concrete. I saw my friend running towards me as I was consumed by black.

I don't know how long it was until I woke up, but a freezing chill on my back brought me back to the garage. I could feel the melting snow running down my bare back. As I opened my eyes I saw�and felt the black hood of my car, still warm from the heater. I tried to roll over onto my back, but aside from still feeling dizzy, my hands had been tied to each of my side mirrors. I could feel spit running out of my mouth and trailing down between�the hairs on my�bare chest and the hood of my car. I started to sweat with fear. I tried kicking my legs but I felt two strong hands grab a hold of my ankles. I started to yell but a greasy hand covered my mouth. I felt hot, nervous, confused. I could tell now that I was completely naked. One of the greasy fingers shoved its way into my mouth. It tasted bitter as it squirmed around feeling my tongue and teeth. Just as I was about to bite down in rage the other hand came around holding some sort of clamp. The metal wedged between my teeth and pried open. I felt completely helpless. I heard one of the two guys I didn't know that well say. "He's all set, go for it." I could feel the warm skin of his penis sliding around my ass cheeks as it got harder. The feel of his penis disapeared for a few seconds until I felt it plunge into my asshole. He threw the bottle of AGS break lubricant onto the hood by my face. I could feel the vigorous pumping of his now lubed dick as it had it's way with my helpless ass.

His friend climbed up onto the hood and straddled my face, his dick hard from watching his friend rape me, and started to throat fuck me in my pried open mouth. I could feel tears starting to fill my eyes, but I still felt dizzy, and it almost felt like a nightmare instead of real life.

It felt like it was hours before he fired his hot load deep inside of my rectum, but I'm sure it was only 10 or 15 minutes. As I felt his dick pulsing with orgasm, and heard him moan, I could feel the throbbing penis in my mouth getting closer to orgasm as well. It was obviously turned on by what was going on behind me. As the man behind me finished his orgasm, the penis deep inside my mouth started to empty its load down my throat as his hands clenched on the back of my head, forcing everything to go deeper. They were both finished now, and there was no sound except all of us breathing heavily. The guy on the hood climbed down and grabbed a knife and cut the rope holding my hands. The other man flipped me over onto my back and pushed me completely up onto the hood. My ass was incredibly sore, and�I scooted up towards the windshield to lean against that.

�Both of the men glared at�me. I saw my friend scrunched up in the far corner. I thin trail of blood led from my asshole down the hood where it dripped slowly onto the ground. While the larger of the two men got dressed the other pulled a maxi pad out of a half empty box stuffed under a tarp. He tossed it onto the hood between my legs as he said, "Looks like your pad needs to be changed, too, bitch." He got dressed and they left together.

Once�I was sure they were gone, I went to check on my friend. Whatever they had drugged me with was still taking its toll and it was hard to move and concentrate. When I made it over I started to cry as I felt for a pulse. He wasn't breathing. I crawled towards my pile of clothes and dug through my pants for my phone. Things were made worse by the text messages the two men who�had raped me sent using my friend's phone. One of them read "LOL I'M DEAD SUX 4 U." I mashed 911 and cried for help. It was odd --�even after being to the garage so many times, I guess I really didn't know where it was. I HAD always followed my friend. I tried to explain the surrounding buildings, but it didn't seem to help much. Thirty minutes later the police and ambulance�finally showed up. My friend was cold and dead as a I clutched his torso. The medic said I�was lucky as he picked up the empty beer can by my friend. Apparently, since he had finished his beer, he consumed too much of the sedative and died from it. I guess they slipped it into�our drinks during the seconds�we were outside together.�I didn't understand how he could say I was lucky. I hadn't bothered to get dressed. I still lay naked in the middle of the cold garage, with a small puddle of blood under me, crying.

My friend's name was Kyle, and this was the night I was going to�finally ask him out.