And now, the watersports and rubber skate board deck.

What do you think? If there an opinion on whether you’d like to have the boards finished with the trucks and wheels plus the grip tape on the top where your feet would go or not – let me know!

Remember that image I did a long, long time ago when we were all much younger, hung out in packs, was part of the loose group QSB and went to ska shows in NYC or Boston?

Just because I wanted to see what came up googling on the word “skinhead” – I was shocked and flattered that somebody out there took my illustration and made a patch out of it! Awesome!

The first course has been scarfed down, how about some seconds? I’m thinking about submitting these to the Seattle Erotic Art Festival this year and some other contests I’ve discovered.

This is the second skate deck I’ve just finished – Bootfetish.

Enjoy!

“What are you doing?” I’m texted.

“Nothing,” I text back, “Why?”

“I got a new ski mask. heh.” 

I couldn’t hear him in text but that rolling, evil laugh I read between the lines was there. It’s one of those laughs that never really makes it out of the mouth, but emits directly from the throat, vibrating through the adam’s apple.

The phone rings.

“Leave your screen on your window loose. Put on a jockstrap and that hole better be clean as a whistle. Leave on your socks cuz it’s cold out. Lay out your poppers, toys and lube. Face down. One hour.”

Off to the shower, my thick dildo, my Elbow Grease Hot, and my poppers. This is my cleansing routine and the way I get in the mood for our little meetings. We met over good beer and bad music in the jukebox, that was until I put about $5 in to make Cher stop singing. Rancid, The Specials, Elastica, and even some Ramones. “J.” works for UPS, bald, furry in lots of places, and has a good 3 inches on me in height and in length. We proceeded to get drunk with a game we started playing revealing one of our kinks followed by big gulps of suds, trying to top the other with how bent we could get.

Piss. Big dildos. Feet. Jocks. Fists. Choking. Ski masks. And on and on.

“Rape?”

“Rape? How?”

I grinned, “Rough, believable, held down, hurt, hands around the throat, resulting in crying.”

“You crying or me crying?” There was that laugh.

“Depends on who’s getting fucked.”

After my clean out, greasing and hole stretch in the shower, on went my jock and tube socks. Cap off the Elbow Grease, lay out the poppers and assorted ass toys and then the window. Once it’s open from the inside, the screen can be easily removed from it’s hook latches – if I get almost all of them. The rest can be done by J.

Time check. One hour, eight minutes. Under the covers to “sleep” and to wait. Ten minutes. Fifteen. And nearly twenty. Heavy breathing and some clambering. I sneak a peek. He can’t see in the dark yet, but I can. His outline from the light across the yard makes an ominous halo – dark hoodie, jeans, and a red and black ski mask. My cock strains in my jock. I know the drill.

The unmistakable unbuckling of a belt buckle and he kicks off his sneakers, unzips taking his thick dick in his hand to grease it. Slowly the comforter and the sheet is pulled down. He hums and grunts as he shucks his jeans. The bed moves as he uses his knees to walk up the mattress to straddle my thighs. I can feel the heat from his crotch tantalizingly close to my hole.

Then J does something that puts my heart in my throat – I feel a cold blade of a knife between my shoulder blades.

He growls, “Make one sound. One stupid move. I’ll kill you.”

I’m really scared this time. What a sick fuck! I hate knives. I’m paralyzed with fear and on the verge of freaking out. My prelubed hole clenches shut and the cold from the open window doesn’t help. I shudder beneath him.

“What are you doing!?”

“Shuddup, ya filthy fuckin’ whore.”

He grabs my mohawk, lifting my head and places the blade under my chin with the flat side against my throat with the sharp edge up. I’ve lost my hard on and I start to sob. I think I’m going to puke. He removes the blade from my neck and with a handful of my hair, forces my face in the pillow hard.

With J’s full weight on my head, his now knifeless hand reaches between my cheeks and pushes 2 fat fingers forcefully up my hole.

“Yeeeaaaah,”  he growls, yanking my head to one side, putting his full weight on my back and his cock nestled and slipping between my well greased cheeks, pressing his lips against my ear so I can feel his hot breath and that all too sexy ski mask. “You know why I’m here. I’m going to work you over good. I’m the guy on the news.”

I gulp down a mouthful of phlegm and whimper as the tip of his cock slides into me and he starts to laugh. I choke and beg for him to stop and he slides his hands around my neck.

“Dontchu fuckin’ scream!”

He pumps me full of his dick as my hole gives way and little pinpricks of light dance before my eyes. Just before I think I’m going to pass out J releases my throat and I collapse into my pillows listlessly. I hear him hit the poppers and he then sprays something into a cloth. Again, grabbing my mohawk he lifts my face from the pillow forcing a cloth into my mouth.

“Breathe deep, faggot.”

I do and my face goes warm and my ears seem to close yet pick up heightened bits of sound, including the rush of blood pumping through my body, which goes completely limp. My head spins almost to the edge of consciousness and it’s almost as if I step outside my body. J’s cock is now replaced by the rather big head of a rubber dong and pushed deep inside me, again and again.

I’m rolling. Whatever it is has made me rather receptive.

“Yer a rotten little cunt and you deserve this.”

Yeah. I do. I sure do. I’m not able to fight him off, even if I wanted to. Out comes the dildo and in goes his cock and I buck up to meet his balls. Deep, heavy thrusts give way to sloppy, constant fucking. My cock stiffens and is crushed against my belly and the mattress, relentlessly pounded by my intruder. My ears pop, my hole clamps down, and he unloads inside of me spent.

“Don’t,” he warns,”get up. Keep yer fuckin’ face down. Count to 50 once I pull out. You tell anyone about this and I’ll be back to make sure you don’t.”

I do as he says, mostly. I watch him get dressed, peering under my armpit. His furry belly and softening but plump dick. The sight makes me want to jerk off but I wait until he’s slipped out of the window and into the night to turn over, rip off my jock and pound out a hefty load all over my stomach.

10 minutes later, I get a text.

“You didn’t count to 50. I saw you cum. I’ll be back.”

I replace the window, crawl under the covers and drift off to sleep.

Everyone has their lists of things for the year end wrap up and I wanted to get a few things off my chest before burning into 2009. I think I’ve been relatively upbeat, despite the reality here on the ground so it’s time to release a little bile I’ve been saving up. I’m not going to do the worst of/best of kind of thing as every news channel has cornered the market on that with clips of Tina Fey making fun of Sarah Palin to devastating effect. Here’s a solid list of things that get on my tits (and make me violently unhappy) that are hereby outlawed, banished, forbidden, and/or completely useless in this shiny new year. Here we go:

Hipsters – These do-nothing, vacuous, trust fund having, ironic mustache growing, moppy haired, scarf-wearing retards must be stopped. You love nothing and therefor should be unloved. Being ground into sausage links would be too good for you, but then again, you’d fry up nice in your own grease.

Perez Hilton – The self-made harpy of the internet and bane of celebrities everywhere has to put away Photoshop and shut the fuck up. I blame all the boys with blogs who think his vapid, humorless troglodytic humor and “insight” is *jutht fabuluth* giving way to television speaking engagements which make my skin crawl. You’re all part of the problem and should be pushed down a long flight of stairs and then force fed pieces of a rainbow flag until you choke and die.

Critical Mass – The next time I see a large group of these attention-whoring cyclists disobeying traffic laws to underscore their “right to the roadway”, I think I’ll just have to run you over. Sayonara, douche bags! (See also – Hipsters)

Asparagus Fern – This plant should no longer be sold in any garden center. It’s an invasive plant, with sharp thorns, red berries, and potato-like roots which makes it incredibly hard to get rid of once it has started to grow. It’ll kill everything around it by soaking up and choking out local resources.

Maverick – This word has lost it’s meaning. Stop using it or I’ll break your nose.

American Idol – Really? Is this rigged cacaphony and circus of humiliation still on? Pass the vomit bucket.

All Reality TV – No. No more. Please. No! It’s time for network execs to work a lot harder to look for writers who are starving to put their great ideas on television.

Popped Collars – You are neither the lead singer of A-ha circa 1985 nor are you making a “cool” fashion statement as a “bro”. The people who did that in high school were all popular and intelligent people who couldn’t wait to get out of those 4 years of hell despised the “Preppy” crowd. Let’s not relive this.

Overprinted jackets – I don’t care what fashion maven started this trend, but this also needs to end. You’ve seen these on chavs (for you UK folks) and other low-life with the love of rap music. Puffy down jackets with gold, silver, or other obnoxiously repeated patterning that makes the jacket look like the liner of a handbag at best and at worst, you left the house in your jammies.

Republicans – You’ve been marginalized to a certain section of the country, issued your pink slips and American has woken up 8 years too late. Good riddance.

Have a happy 2009, everyone!