Matthew Licht

I Am Rocco Siffredi

When I woke up, I was Rocco Siffredi. What does Rocco Siffredi eat for breakfast? He does not eat breakfast. He goes out and looks for something to fuck. The first thing I saw was a chick with big tits. So I went up to her and whipped it out. She got on her knees, right there in the street. “Suck,” I said. “Suck hard.” She sucked. She sucked hard.

A cop saw what we were doing, and thought it was obscene or indecent or some stupid shit like that. Cops must not fuck enough, or they’d leave people alone. The cop said, “Hey! You can’t do that here! Go make a porno movie or something.”

“I’m Rocco Siffredi,” I said. “My life is a porno movie. What’re you gonna do? Arrest me for living my fucking life?”

To show the cop I meant business, I pulled out and sprayed my co-star’s cheekbones. Then I wiped off on her hairdo and moved on.

Before I was Rocco Siffredi, I seem to remember I had a job, Iike in a bank or some shit. But now that I was Rocco Siffredi, I went into the bank to fuck. I pushed everyone in line aside. Rocco Siffredi does not wait in line. The teller was African-American.

“Hey,” I said. “You ever see a soul brother with a dick this big?”

She gasped and pulled up her skirt. I slammed it right in.

The man who used to be my boss before I was Rocco Siffredi came out of his office. “What’s going on out here?” He saw what I was doing to my new banker girlfriend. “You’re fired!”

Then he pointed at me.

“You!” he hissed. “You’re double-fired!”

He was always such a bossy fucking boss, but now I was Rocco Siffredi. Nobody bosses Rocco Siffredi. I hosed down my former boss from my former stupid life.

Glazing that idiot with sperm made me hungry. I barged into a steakhouse and got some steaks. I fucked the waitress for the check. She wanted to give me her tip money, but I’m not a whore. I am Rocco Siffredi, porn star supreme!

When the sun went down, I went to a disco. Not just any disco—the most exclusive disco in town. Make that, the world. The velvet rope knew enough to get out of the way.

A Supermodel appeared. She said, “Fuck me hard, Rocco!”

Supermodels like to live dangerously.

Gently, I grabbed her ears. My gunk shot out her nose. It was beautiful.

“What the hell are you doing?” someone said. “It’s past your bedtime and you gotta go to work tomorrow!”

Shit. That voice sounded familiar.

Before I was Rocco Siffredi, I think I had a wife, somewhere.

She was standing in the disco doorway. She had a bottle in her hand. She’s good with a bottle. I dropped the Supermodel. She fell limp to the unmopped disco floor.

My wife approached. She held the bottle by the neck. She holds me that way sometimes. She broke the the bottle against a glittery railing.

My life as Rocco Siffredi was over.

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