The Dark Side - Sex Stories

The Dark Side

... wore their Redskin jerseys on game nights. They all sat around and complained that Obama was the worst president in history, why we need to bomb those towel heads off the Earth, and burning faggots at the stake was a popular rallying cry among the patrons. Well, okay, not literally burning people but that was the gist of their sentiments. Most conversations these days were about immigration reform. It wasn’t quite articulated that way. It was more like how those damn illegal wetbacks were taking all the jobs and getting services that Americans, hard-working, tax-paying, English-speaking, real Americans couldn’t get. If complaining was a sport, the regular patrons of Hadley’s Sports Bar and Grille could form their own team, sponsored by the local hardware store, with uniforms and even a promotional calendar. They complained about almost everything but mostly, how America was under attack by evil forces, and by evil forces, they meant anyone who wasn’t white, male, heterosexual, Christian, Republican, and born in the good, ole’ U.S. of A. White women got a pass as long as they weren’t talking about things like equal pay and reproductive rights and rape and stuff like that AND as long as they weren’t fucking black guys. These weren’t Redneck, ne’er-do-wells who drove pickup trucks and who were missing their bicuspids and incisors. Most of Dave’s “crew” were college educated, married, gainfully employed, and average. Sickeningly average. When a sporting event wasn’t on, Fox ...

... News was always on the TV and very few people of color ever frequented the place so no one there would be offended if a racial epithet or two . . . or three . . . slipped into the conversation once in a while. The sound system at the bar played a constant stream of urban music and it was not uncommon for everyone to know all the words to the latest R&B and Hip-Hop songs, N word and all. Far from the most outspoken lush at the bar, David certainly wasn’t the meekest customer either. He made sure everyone knew that he thought just like everyone else: Trayvon Martin got what he deserved, Donald Sterling didn’t, and basically anything that any Black person stood for, he was firmly on the other side of the argument, regardless of whether it was clearly the wrong moral side or not. It wasn’t until he left the bar at night that his demons started to haunt him. Mild mannered, unassuming, and painfully mediocre David sought out the extreme when it came to sex. Fifteen years ago, he was content to have a weekly, predictable, lackluster three minutes of awkward humping in the hay with his wife. Today, he was someone who needed more and more perverse stimulation. With the advent of the internet, Viagra, and some recreational drugs now and then, David had become a slave to his desires. It was a symptom of a much larger disease, having access to more than sufficient disposable income and a false sense of superiority and entitlement that told him that whatever he did was justified. His mind ...