By Pablo Greene

Chapter 1 — 
My Superhero Fetish

My name is Roland.

On the night of my twenty-eighth birthday, my friends took me out for dinner. We shared heaps of enchiladas, frosty bottles of beer, limes on the rim. I tossed back a couple of shots. I blew out candles on a red velvet cake, and our waitress led all of us at the table in an off-key rendition of the happy birthday song. Earlier, I had left my car at home on purpose, because I knew I would have a beer or two at the restaurant. By the time we paid the bill, I had drunk seven bottles and downed four shots. I walked home from dinner alone, comforted by the false safety provided by my cell phone and the gauzy softness of my whiskey buzz.

It was only midnight, but my neighborhood was a quiet one at this hour. As I walked, I heard nothing more than my own steps as they hit the sidewalk. As I turned the corner onto my street, a person jumped on me from behind. Quick jabs to my kidneys brought me down to my knees, and something sharp punctured my skin. My attacker stabbed me 24 times squarely between the shoulder blades, coming very close to my spine, slicing through my muscle tissue like a butcher and missing my neck by just an inch I lay bleeding on the street until a car full of teenagers happened to find me. They called 911.

When the ambulance brought me in, the blood loss and the shock from the attack sent me into cardiac arrest. I blacked out.

The medics on duty later said that my blackout lasted nothing more than a few seconds, but during that time, I floated in the plane between life and death. At first I only floated in a pool of darkness and silence. But after a few moments, I caught a gleam, a pinpoint of white and gold light in the distance. You could call it a vision, I guess. I don’t have a name for it.

The light cut through that dark blanket of severe physical trauma, and I saw symbols fly in front of me, like fireworks from another planet with its own laws of physics. These floating symbols did not represent God, I don’t think. I can’t be sure. They flew past me like celestial bodies in the cosmos.

I heard no voices, and there was no sense of “moving toward the light.” As the white and gold shapes orbited around me, they grew, until they exploded into a mass of light. It shot out like a bolt of lightning and filled my chest with something that felt cold and hot at the same time. Something that burned. A buzzing sound cut through the silence. My ears rang. I regained consciousness soon after.

It took the doctors hours and several pints of blood to close my wounds and bring me back to a stable condition. I awoke two days later. The wounds went deep into my tissues, but my vital organs and main arteries had been spared. I was lucky.

My recovery came next. I was a shitty patient. Every minute I spent in the intensive care unit, every moment laid up in that bed, I wanted to get up and go back to my job.
I remained in the hospital for a week, and I went back to work just six days after I was sent home.

I was head nurse at Arkum Memorial Hospital, and the team needed me back at work. I filled my schedule in our computer system to take as many shifts as I could for that month of June. I loved my job.

I didn’t spend much time thinking back to the blackout and the golden fireworks I had witnessed the night of my stabbing. I was a man of science, and I attributed the visions I saw on the night of my attack to disturbances in my optic nerve, as well as the probable lack of oxygen as my body fought off death. In nursing school I learned that the pineal gland in the brain can often trigger visions of near-death experiences during major traumas, like mine. This gland will trigger the release of compounds that will make a person see images, lights, and other visions. I suspect that my pineal gland might have gone out of whack the night of my attack, though I am not exactly sure how.

I never found out who the mugger was. The attacker stole my credit cards and exactly 38 dollars in cash.

I suppose I could say that I might have been scared to go back out in the world at night again for fear of another mugging, but the truth was, I wanted to prove to myself that what had happened to me was random, without any meaning. And I was damned if an incident like this was going to keep me imprisoned in my own apartment.

In the weeks that followed, I resolved to live the life I wanted, to squeeze the most of out of every moment. The way to do this was to try things that I had previously been too scared to do.

This resolve reminded me of how much I had yet to live. I was missing something real, something to hold onto, and I knew that I was never going to find it by staying home long after my recovery was complete.

On the three-week anniversary of my stabbing, I went out by myself. This was something I never would have done before. I took a taxi to Fortress in the warehouse district. Fortress was a large nightclub that promised dark corners, sweaty bodies, and the seduction of anonymity. I went there to find someone to take home.

I would give it my best shot, and if I was successful, I may find a way to get laid, and put the past behind me. I needed sex to find release, and though I was too shy to admit it to my friends, I knew I could admit it to myself: I needed a good, deep fucking.

I hadn’t had sex in more than two years, and I felt hollow, dried out like a scarecrow.

Nothing was going to let me feel this emptiness again. I headed into the cavernous warehouse of Fortress that night, feeling unsure of my ability to attract any men, yet I was certain that I was looking for something.

That night I found him.

He told me his name was Rick, and that he had a superhero fetish.

His eyes were green and his hair fell in waves, brushing the nape of his neck. The muscles of his chest were bursting through his t-shirt. He stood a good eight inches taller than me, and his muscular shoulders cast a shadow as he leaned in toward the mass of people dancing. The sound system exploded with music, and the bodies dancing around us steamed up the place with heat. House and techno had never sounded better to me.

We had met by touching first. Our backs bumped into each other, and I spilled my beer. I turned and faced a man packed with muscle, his chest tapering down to a small waist and supported by muscular legs. His biceps bulged out of his short sleeves. I smiled up at him, unsure of what was the best way to respond. He smiled, but only partially. He inspected me while he danced.

“Hey, what’s your name?” he said. “I’m Rick.”

In my mind, in my perverted, twisted little mind, where big muscle jocks became superheroes, I knew that a man like this one could fill out a superhero’s tights without a problem.

It was fucking unreal.

He was fucking unreal.

Guys this good looking didn’t generally make out with guys like me. They usually walked right past. Those guys always wanted muscle men, and I would never be a muscle man.
I looked for Rick’s boyfriend or a posse of friends. He moved with ease, swaying his hips, focused on nothing except the music. He seemed to be alone here tonight, like me.

“So you’re into superheroes, huh?” he said.

My heart sank in fear, and just as it plunged, excitement rose inside me in the opposite direction. The t-shirt I was wearing had to be the telltale sign, and I knew it. Before I left my apartment, I had yanked the blue tee over my head, thinking, why not wear this for a night out? Its shape was nothing but gorgeous geometry: a diamond stretched inside another diamond. This was the logo of The Fighter, one of my favorite superhero icons.

Let’s be real. Only comic book dorks or gay guys would wear a shirt like this one. I took a chance, and the shirt was the very thing that started our conversation.

I secretly fantasized about superheroes and the sex they might have with each other.

Rick traced the outline of the diamond logo, and I felt electric shocks where his index finger touched me through the fabric. I imagined that he could visualize what was inside my mind, how much that fantasy made me hard, how it made me feel like fire in my chest, in my throat, and between my legs and in my balls. I hoped my Fighter t-shirt enhanced my narrow chest enough to keep Rick interested.

He smiled at me, tugging at the loops in my belt to jam me closer to him. My own two pecs bumped up against the hard mounds of muscle of his chest. I work in advertising, he shouted. Nursing, I responded.

I have often felt that time passes at a different pace when dancing in a nightclub. Sometimes, memories flash back like the strobe lights that explode above. They show up, and then they are gone again. I put my hand on Rick’s waist, and one of these strobe light memories exploded onto me.

I was back in nursing school, in California, studying in a library carrel. I read an organic chemistry book, with my head down. I was wearing a Fighter t-shirt. I was studying to become a nurse because all my life, I have wanted to help people, the way that my favorite superheroes from comic books helped those who needed it most. In order to become the best at what I did, I mastered knowledge: the systems of the body, its diseases and its strengths. School suited me, and I spent many years in university and nursing school, surrounded by the questions about the body: How do bodies work and why do they grow? Why does disease strike? And how do we die? These questions had started every time I had flipped through the stories of the Fighter, the Overfiend, or their archenemies, like the Dark Matter, Aracniss, or Black Flag. In that library carrel, I saved my comics for the end of the night, as a treat after my studies.

The nightclub popped back into my view. I put my face close to Rick’s collarbone, my nose and lips just a couple of inches from his neck. Rick wore no cologne, but his skin tasted like ocean. He shouted over the music, but I shook my head. I put my hand up to my ear. Can’t hear you.

“Can’t hear you,” I shouted.

He repeated himself. “You heard me right,” he said. “I fucking love superheroes.”

His voice rang deep, cutting through the noise of the bass, and I felt myself harden under my jeans. I knew there were other guys like me, guys who felt a little perverted jerking off on images from their comic book memories, but as far as I knew I had never met any of them in real life. The chances of finding someone who could fall deep into fantasies about superhumans was slim to none, as far as I was concerned.

On the Internet, it was a whole different story, though. Online, there were hundreds of men who shared my fetish, and I chatted with them many times. But not once in my life did I ever seriously consider meeting them in person. Too many weirdos, too many creeps. Too many serial killers.

Rick let go of my waist, and he put his beefy arm around me. The dark hairs on the forearm ran in the same direction. Orderly, neat, and extremely enticing. I thought he could be Latin American or from an Arab country. Maybe Italy. He walked me to the edge of the dance floor, toward the bar. He bought me a beer, and he asked me to tell him my story. His green eyes glinted under the lights. Then they went back to their opaque state.

“My story, huh?” I said. I laughed a little. I explained where I worked, and why I loved Kansas City. I explained why I came back from California to live in my hometown after graduation, and as he turned sideways in mid-dance, I got a look at the perfect curve of his bubble ass and the way clothes clung to his tight body. He looked healthy and strong, and I wanted to be naked next to him, to feel how my own smaller, shorter self would measure up against his knees, his thighs, his back and his shoulder blades. I took a swig from my beer, and another strobe light memory burst in my mind.

I was a kid again, ten years old, and my hair was so blond it was almost white. It was Friday afternoon after school, and I ran home with a pile of the latest issues of my favorite superhero comics and read them in the far corner of my bedroom, my body submerged in a bean bag. I traced the muscles of all my favorite superheroes with my fingers, and after I finished reading my stack, I traced them on white paper with a pencil. I liked neatness and order in everything I did. On my desk in my bedroom, I placed stacks of my favorite comics, and in the drawer beneath, the drawings I made of their sculpted bodies. I drew The Fighter, his brother Centaur, and their double-crossing teammate, the Overfiend. I tied a towel around my neck and ran down the length of the house, leaping as I burst into the backyard. “Long live the Fighter,” I screamed.

The crash of electronic rumbles and synthesizer brought me back to the glass bar I was leaning against. Rick glanced at some other guys as they walked nearby, and he inspected their bodies, too. He looked experienced at finding what he wanted in a place like this. In profile, his Roman nose gave his face a hard look, like an eagle. He was physically fit beyond belief and out of my league by far. I imagined what he might look like in a pair of tights and a bodysuit delineating the muscled lines of his chest. He looked out at the hundreds of men before us, as if we might be watching the waves of the ocean crash. With his left hand he took hold of my ass and gave it a squeeze. He caught me off guard, and I jumped. I turned up to look at him, and before I could say anything he gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

I saw the strobe light memories dance in my mind again.

I was sixteen years old, and it was summer. My parents’ divorce was finally real, and movers were taking out my father’s stuff in big boxes. I stood on the porch, watching three thick men carry out my father’s belongings, when I caught a burst of colors sticking out from the trash bins in front of our house. I lifted the lid and saw seven boxes, stuffed to the brim with my comic book collection. Other discarded liquids had fallen on top of the comics, ruining them. Their pulp clumped together as they absorbed the liquid. Either my father or my mother had thrown them out, moving me out of a phase of my childhood against my will. The face of the Fighter peered up at me from the wet pages of his comic. I took this last comic and walked behind our house. There, I jerked off to the pages where the Fighter lay bound to a train track with steel chains, his mouth gagged, and his muscles bulging through his costume. I came in thick spurts onto the pages of that comic, and I yanked my cock back into my boxer shorts when I heard one of the movers come out through the side door. I zipped up my jeans and I went back to the dumpster.

I grabbed as many of the comics as I could, and I walked down to the park at the end of our street. I lit a match to my comics and saw them go up in black smoke that made my eyes water and my throat choke. It wasn’t the last time I would ever own comic books, but that day I wanted them gone forever.

A trickle of heat brought me back to the dance floor. Rick pressed his other hand onto the spot of skin above my belt, where the edge of my t-shirt gave him access to my bare torso. His hand pressed down firmly, and I blushed. Everyone could see him feel me up under my shirt. Everyone.

“Some of my favorite storylines come from Titan comics,” Rick said. “If it weren’t for The Fighter’s travel to the Ultraworld, the whole imprint would have gone to shit. But it didn’t. I have all issues starting from number 137.”

“Wow,” I said. “I stopped collecting them in high school, but I sometimes look at an issue or two. I just can’t believe you get off on them the way I do.”

“There’s nothing hotter,” Rick said. He gave my bulge a hard tug that sent a delicious bolt of pain through me.

We didn’t last long inside the club. Rick took my hand and led me out through the stairway, onto the side entrance. I could see the dense muscles on his shoulders churn under his shirt and his muscular ass stride with power under his tight jeans. We walked past some really hot guys, all of them looking for sex, and all of them hotter, bigger and more physically impressive than me. But I was the one whose hand Rick was holding. I was his, and he was mine. For a few brief moments, I didn’t feel like a nerd.

I had been single for years, and since then, I had figured out that I was better off alone, free of a relationship. I woke up each morning eager to perform my duties at the hospital, and at night, I slept deeply and without dreams. This freedom left me with a lot of time to dedicate to my work, and that kept me happy. The only thing I was missing in my life was the fire of good sex, the taste of a man’s body on my lips, and the thick mass of a cock inside me.

I fantasized about finding a satisfying sex life during my walks in the prairies outside the suburbs, or in my walks in Powell Gardens, but I always put the fantasies away by the time I was home, in what I called the real world. I used to call that Kansas City and its buildings, its objects — my apartment, clothes, my books, my triathlon bike, my photographs of my friends and family — the real world.

That had been back then. After the night I met Rick, things became different.

Outside Fortress, the fantasy veneer of the club vanished. The laser and techno landscape was gone, and there was no glamor left. Glamor was stupid. These streets were still considered the rough part of town, and it wasn’t wise to hang about at this hour of night. Poverty and racial inequality were real here. My own reality was apparent to me, too.

I stood in the street now, in my bargain jeans from a big box store, and my eyes bathed in orange light from the streetlamps. But Rick didn’t care about my clothes. He pushed me up against his parked car, and his long hair and his aftershave filled my nose and eyes.

He drove a silver Audi. I thought it was sort of ridiculous in a mid-life-crisis kind of way, but there’s no way he was middle-aged. I guessed that at most he was 32, with the intense gaze of a mature man but the muscular body of a college athlete.

“Why don’t you come back to my place?” I offered. I lived alone, and I wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. I wanted him in my bed, and I wanted him now.

“We’re fine out here,” he said. “For now. Maybe afterward.” Rick’s words gave out firm commands, and this tone of voice he used made me alert, aroused, and eager to hear him talk again.

He put his hands on his fly.

When he unbuttoned his jeans, I felt a surge in my crotch, a blast of heat. I was hard under my Levi’s, and I kissed his long neck, running my lips over his stiff stubble, and he smiled down at me with his green eyes. I had never done something like this. How many times had I gone out to a bar with my buddies, only to be left behind nursing a gin and tonic while they took off with the men of their dreams? Too many times. But I was the guy no one ever noticed. I was the guy that was too plain, too ordinary to take a guy home. I was the guy who always left the bar alone at the end of the night.

Except now, here I was, and the wind was rippling Rick’s blue shirt, and I could see it part in the middle, revealing a rock-hard stomach covered in a narrow trail of smooth black hairs. The skin was tan and taut. When I glanced back up at his gorgeous face, I realized that the ethnicities he could fall under had expanded. He could be Mexican, Italian, maybe Turkish. And maybe, he was as American as hamburgers and hot dogs. It was hard to say.

I felt the small of his back, and his packed muscles shifted. The boulders of his ass felt heavy and warm under the palms of my hands. I was breathing hard, trying to keep up with his kisses. To be honest, I had never put my arms around a man that was this muscular. I felt awkward holding this dense mass, as if I were hugging a refrigerator.

“So, about that superhero stuff,” I said. “Were you serious? Or did you only say it in order to get into my pants?”

Rick ignored me and kissed me harder. I kissed back.

The tip of my dick was throbbing, and I could see a wet spot the size of a quarter spread near my fly. I was oozing pre-cum.

Rick squatted. He put his tongue up to the spot and licked. He smiled and sniffed the liquid to pick up its scent. He buried his face in my own stomach, and he yanked my t-shirt up my torso to get a better view of my skinny belly. His mouth tickled me, but I fought the urge to laugh, and when I did, my dick stiffened even further. He laughed too, and he winked at me. His smile spread wide. Hell, it wasn’t even a smile. It was a grin.

I saw a couple of cars drive by, their headlights washing over us, but no one had spotted us. Not yet, anyway. I felt alive and raw, and I wanted more.

And then he peeled open my button fly, and he put his perfect lips up to my shaft. He ran his tongue over every surface, and he probed my balls with the warmth of his mouth. His muscled shoulders rolled back like a bird spreading its wings. He had the length of my dick in his mouth, and he worked his lips up and down, fast, then slow, always just right. He had most of its length in his mouth, and I felt electricity surge up my spine. It was the best blowjob of my life. I wondered what he might be like in my bed, with me on top of his muscular body, kissing, sucking, maybe fucking.

It was all too good to be true, but there wasn’t much time for that thought. Everything felt good, and I could feel a tingle at the soles of my feet. I was going to cum. The air blew trash down the street, and I felt like that trash. I wanted to be rolled over, tossed, funneled away by this man’s perfect mouth on my penis and his large hands pinning me down onto the car.

He grew tense then under his shirt, and he broke out in a deeper sweat, his face gleaming, his shirt soaked.

“You’ve got to let me fuck you,” Rick said.

He stood up again, and I looked up at him, trying to memorize every detail of his face. He had a mole on his right cheek. His jaw was hard and square, like a lantern.

“Sounds good,” I said, except I wasn’t sure at all. And what kind of idiotic response was sounds good? I wanted to slap myself across the face.

I really wasn’t sure about getting fucked.

I had only tried getting fucked once, and it had been a disaster. But something in me wanted this tonight, especially with him. He unbuttoned his shirt a little more to cool off, and the hard muscle of his body ripped through. His pecs were chiseled and huge, mounds of gym-earned muscle, smooth. His stomach was flat and hard, and the sheen of sweat on its surface contoured his abs, his perfect abs. Abs that I wanted to sink my face into. Sweat covered his collarbone. I remembered every comic book hero I had worshipped as a kid, every panel showing off these tight muscles, and I knew he would look perfect in a superhero uniform.

But I was too afraid to bring up superheroes again. If I did, I knew Rick would run away. He had told me was into the same kinky fantasy, but I did not believe him. There was only one person in the world that was simply the best at sabotaging my plans, and that person was me.

Rick took half a step back and pulled down his jeans and revealed a trail of hair that led down to the tight waistband of his underwear, a shiny red pair of briefs that looked all too much like a Speedo. So hot, I thought. I loved Speedos, and this guy wore one under his street clothes. It was fucking bold.

He pulled down the red spandex and I got a glimpse of his cock. Not all of it. But just enough. It was a hard and long cock, veined like marble. Uncut, with a large head. He pressed his body on top of mine, and I almost slipped off the hood of his car. He ground his hips into mine, and he reminded me “I need to be inside you.”

“Out here, in the street?” I said.

“Wherever you want, however you want.” He ran his hand over my neck, and as it moved over my face he clamped it over my mouth, as if to shush me, but hard. I wasn’t expecting it to happen, but my dick sprang up harder each time he applied more pressure. I wanted those big hands on me always, tonight, and maybe forever. He glanced to each side, looking out for passersby who might catch us in the dark. I saw none, but it was hard to get a good view.

We kissed some more.

Then, a shadow crossed his face, and the intensity behind his eyes changed. He pulled his shirt closed. The wind whipped through the trees, getting stronger. A helicopter cut through the clouds in the distance, close to the farmhouses. He glanced at his smartphone.

“Didn’t realize how late it is. I can’t stay out tonight, though, I have to catch a flight early tomorrow,” he said.

I was angry. Why was he teasing me like this? I wanted to make this moment extend all night, and now, he wasn’t going to finish the blowjob or anything else that came after that. I could see the red briefs disappear as he zipped up his jeans and ran a hand through his hair. My cock was still erect, wanting more of those red briefs and the heavy balls and cock that lay underneath them.

“You have my number,” he said. “You don’t just have to text me, you can call me. I am in town for business twice a month.”

I was a shy person, but shy people get angry, too. I was angry, and I am not sure why, but I had to say something. I couldn’t keep quiet.

“This isn’t fucking fair,” I said. “This was getting so…good.”

“That’s why I have to run, because it was so good, and I think you have what it takes to…make it good. There is something different about you, and it’s hot, and it has…potential,” he said.

Rick pressed his shoulders into mine, and he kissed me so deeply I ran out of air. I pushed my own body back into his. He was strong, but I had some strength of my own, and I wanted him to know that I meant this kiss, and that my dick, still hard and pressed up against his thigh, was not going to be satisfied until it got what it needed from him.

But I also knew how a night like this one would end`. He was never going to call me back, and it was never going to be more than a quick blowjob and a grope in a side street of Kansas City. He’d go back to Seattle, New York, or whatever city he worked from. He said he worked in the advertising industry. I made sure to remember what his face looked like, so I could tell my friends this story one day. I had this last chance to see his face, since I would never see it again.

He pulled away from me and got into his car, his muscled glutes flexing as he sat down low in the seat. He rolled down his window and smiled as he sped away. I buttoned up my shirt.

When I got home, I showered and brushed my teeth. I got into bed. In the dark, I ground my hips into my mattress and bit down onto my pillow, imagining Rick on top of me, both of us suited in tight superhero uniforms, our skin slick with sweat. I remembered his red Speedo under his jeans, and I embellished my fantasy by placing the red suit over his tights, to seal in place his superhero look. His body engulfed me as he bore down on me. In my fantasy, he entered my ass with his uncut dick, and he kissed the back of my neck. As I lay facedown with my hand around my cock, I came right onto my mattress.

His name was Rick.

Or so I thought that night. There was so much I still didn’t know.

 

End of Chapter 1

 

 

About The Book


How to Kill a Superhero: A Gay Bondage Manual dares to visit the darkest corners of the superhero genre, where horror, science fiction, and sex converge. This tale takes readers on a ride into the erotic they won’t soon forget. It is available for purchase on Amazon and in the Kindle Store.

 

About The Author

Pablo Greene was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, where he studied philosophy. He resides in New Orleans, Louisiana. You can follow him on Twitter at @pablogreene.

 

For more information, visit https://howtokillasuperhero.net.