creative writing, fiction, men, short fiction, women, writing

The Thrust Guide To South America


Jonathan did not make eye contact with the stewardess, or make conversation with the people squeezed in next to him. He ate the inflight meal without tasting it, watched the poorly edited movie without seeing it. His mind was elsewhere, in a Schrodinger state of looking backwards and forwards in the same thought.


Six months earlier, watching a livestream where Thrust sat there, rocking back and forth in front of the webcam. Smoking but not inhaling as he pointed at the camera with a stained, bony finger.


Jonathan had been swathed in headphones, mouth hung open. He was glad that no one disturbed him or saw his tears. Thrust had been involuntarily celibate, and had seized his destiny, now he was returning his favour to his fellow man. All for the low, low cost of thirty dollars for a live streaming session and that included access to the pdfs of his guides to South America.

Paul, on the road to Damascus, had never converted so hard to an idea. But he did not have his erection in his hand, even as he visualized all the pussy he would ‘pay and slay.’

Thrust had been a lean, raw-boned man who actually lived in his parent’s basement, even made a feature of it as he wrote The Thrust Guide To South America. He tweeted, blogged and wrote about the best places to find women who would answer a call to power. The power of cash which would inevitably give birth to the confidence and presence that would land pussy at your feet for free. Boner S Thompson working a job where he had to wear a name badge, Jonathan had bought the book online and read it on his phone in chunks in between shifts.

Thrust made it all so simple.




Jonathan was a true believer, but his heart still thumped in his chest when he stepped off the plane.

Thrust had boasted of having a different woman in every room, every night. It was overwhelming to Jonathan, who had not even had one. Thrust had written that average men worked to get sex. This was a place where he would be treated like a king, not like the delivery boy. He had already selected the women who would come to him tonight via direct messages and booked in a meal before that. Here, they knew their place.

He was not about to hail a cab, and the town was three miles from the station. By the time, he made it to the villa, his thighs were chafed and slick with sweat, stinging with each step. His hair was plastered to his head, and the wind had blown his hat off, which he was secretly relieved about, because it never sat right on his head. It was already dark by the time he arrived.

At the villa, the women had been waiting. He entered the room, led by the butler, Gustavo, who had a sparkling glass of champagne waiting for him on a silver tray and clicked his heels together when he made eye contact with Jonathan. It was arousing to be recognised, to be deferred to, even if it was paid for. He felt much the same way about the women. They could be bought, but he saw this as a way to build up his confidence.

He asked that the women run him a bath and join him in there. He ate alone, but the food was dry and too spicy for his stomach to bear without insult. He stripped off alone, wondered if he wasn’t simply in a hotter version of home, with his mom running a bath and pouring in the bubble bath that he liked as a kid. The thought upset his stomach, and he ran to the bathroom. He shat in a burning rush, shuddering and gagging at the stink.

They waited for him, polite enough to ignore the stink. Long black hair, pert noses and full, soft lips that glistened like the HD porn that had been his sole source of sexual experience. Bodies like ripe fruit, thirsty dark nipples testing white cotton and skin that glowed in the evening light as though they had stepped from the screen or the page.  

They spoke no English, they did not need to. They had been given their instructions by Gustavo and Jonathan had been reassured via email that his every need would be met without question.

He waddled forwards, hands spread to cover his genitals and looking down at his feet. They gave small smiles and came towards him, took his arms and led him to the steaming, frothy concoction of the bath that waited for him. It stung when he got into the water, but the heat sapped away his pain, then his anxiety, then he found his eyes growing heavy. He had wanted this, even as he struggled against it, but they were singing to him, lyrics he did not know and he drifted off.



‘Mr Forster.’

Gustavo said his name like identifying a symptom. He could not move. He asked who was there. Gustavo leaned over, his face composed into an expression of polite disdain. Jonathan swallowed his nausea, tried to struggle but found that he had been cuffed at the wrists and ankles. He could feel cold steel beneath his bare buttocks and tried to shift upwards away from it, bucking like the orgasms he imagined having with the women. Each breath tasted of antiseptic and stale sweat, a cocktail of despair that foretold a fate he‘d seen in late night movies, never imagined he‘d experience.


That drew a chuckle and the sound of something being brought over on wheels.

‘Mr Forster, you are infected with a breed of arrogance that is far less endearing than you have been led to believe.’

He looked around. The walls were covered in white tiles. An adolescence of bad horror movies rewarded his effort with the observation that places like these could be washed clean with a hose. He tried to move but where he was bound proved utterly implacable.

‘Please, I didn’t do anything wrong.’

Gustavo chuckled, and it made Jonathan exhale in short, panicked bursts. He kept saying it over and over.

Especially when Gustavo showed him the straight razor.

Told him what he was going to do with it.

When one of the girls came over with a glass of wine, her features were sharpened with intelligence that Jonathan would have found emasculating and unnerving had she worn it when he got into the bath. He begged for an explanation. She looked at him and tutted with disdain, gave Gustavo a kiss on the cheek, that he accepted with a paternal wink, and then left him to his work.

Gustavo patted Jonathan on the shoulder.

‘They like to watch, sometimes. I would rather spare them, but it is, how they say -‘ He clicked his fingers in his struggle to recall the world. He grinned and nodded.

‘Catharsis, that’s it.’

He gave up his account information too quickly, and when Gustavo held the edge of the blade to his scrotum, Jonathan even remembered his mother’s credit card. All the details of his life, such as it was. He wept with savage, open emotion until, irritated by the mewling tone of it, Gustavo decided to slice right after all. In two careful swipes, accompanied by a gurgling series of shrieks that made Gustavo wish to be wearing earplugs, he had reduced Jonathan’s manhood to a tattered, bloody sock between his glazed thighs.

They never did last, these cockerels who came strutting into the yard, thinking that their money meant anything. He knew where to cut to make it last, and then where to cut in order to finish things quickly.  It had become quite profitable for them, and the actor who‘d played Thrust had been more than happy to take the money and not ask questions. Jonathan’s body would be cut up, fed to the pigs and they would wait out the long, beautiful days until another arrival.

Gustavo had learned his trade well, under the knives and bombs of the American-funded guerillas who swept through his country like a plague. He had worked with the women, the ones who had been taken, used and thrown away. He had taken them with him, brought them here, with what money he had been able to get out before the hammer of democracy fell on them all. The right kind of democracy. Fat, white American men were brave at a distance, but hold a blade to their balls and they showed their true selves to you.  

To call them was an easy thing, simply because Gustavo had learned more than once, gambling through medical school, that you could not con an honest man.

They were receiving applications every day from legions of flies who believed they were spiders They had provided an attractive web. The women were allowed to be themselves in between, laughing, raising children and comforting those who awoke screaming in the night.



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