An Observational Piece of Flash Fiction I Will Probably Never Publish
It was just as the muscular, tank-topped guy named Bradley began regaling his friends about the chick he’d fucked six ways to Sunday last night when he noticed two new patrons enter the cigar bar.
Both were well dressed and finely groomed. Neither had a single hair out of place, and one of them was wearing a pink dress shirt.
Bradley’s first thought was that these two were obviously queers, so what the fuck were they doing in his favorite establishment?
And since when did homos even smoke cigars?
Resuming his story of the prior night’s events, describing how this chick had deep-throated his massive cock like she was trying to give herself an endoscopy, he couldn’t help but be distracted by how close the newcomers were now sitting at the bar.
Great, he thought, not only are they fags, but they have to flaunt it, too.
He continued his tale seemingly undaunted, going on to describe how he’d next thrown this bitch down on her back, demolishing her pussy like his gargantuan dick was Exxon-Mobil and fracking her cunt like it was the Saudi Arabian Ghawar oil field.
From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the poofs lean over and give the other a kiss on the cheek. This deliberate display of gayness was completely uncalled for, but he didn’t let it hinder him from resuming the story that had his buddies wrapt in anticipation, wondering what would happen next.
With extra careful attention to detail, he explained how her tight little slit was barely able to accommodate his mighty trouser python, so in an altruistic act of kindness, he titty-fucked the shit out of her for a while instead. As he did so, he heard the two fairies give the waitress their order, which consisted of a raspberry vodka tonic and an amaretto sour. To make matters even more unbearable, the two queens had begun holding hands as the waitress went to get their drinks.
Bradley was visibly irritated by this point, but proceeded on nonetheless to explain how the tit-bang got boring, so he bent her over and gauged out her shit locker like his turgid hogleg was the gopher from Caddyshack burrowing the depths beneath the golf course.
Finally, he concluded his saga with a retelling of how the chick had begged him to grab her by the hair and spray her face like it was a canvas and his exploding cock was Jackson Pollock.
Upon the tale’s completion, Bradley and his bros found they had little else to talk about, and so they just ordered another round of beers and stogies instead.
“Ya know,” Bradley began, nonchalantly eyeing the gays who were now quietly puffing on their cigars, “if they wanna be gay that’s fine. But why do they gotta flaunt it so much?”
“Word,” agreed one of his friends. “Like, it’s not as if we sit here flaunting how straight we are…”