(Not a stroke story - unless your mom's reading it to you.)
Troy didn't look like a troll in the traditional sense of the word, but he didn't look like an ordinary nineteen year-old either. His rounded shoulders, girlie thighs, and pot belly belied a physique born not from living under a bridge, but from surfing the internet every waking minute of the day.
His destination on the web would vary, depending on his mood. If he was feeling macho or mean, he'd go to Literotica.com and make his presence known. If he was horny, he'd seek out one of the many Big Jugs style porn sites. If he was feeling open-minded, he'd go to various Right Wing blogs, absorbing the well-written spin and propaganda as if it was actual information.
There were only a couple of things that would tear him away from his computer; one was work, the other was the beach. He liked the beach because he could look at women's breasts for free, where if he was to go down to the all-nude non-alcohol strip bar, it would cost ten bucks to get in, and then it would be so dark, he could barely see anything but the curvy silhouettes of tits, butts and labias jiggling in the annoying strobe lights.
The beach also gave him the opportunity to play solo Frisbee. It's not that he had no friends to play Frisbee with, it's just that none of his friends liked him. But he was okay with that, because he was a Man's Man. He was Independent. He was On His Own, and his mom even let him decorate his room any way he pleased. She didn't say word one when he replaced his Star Wars poster with a Pam Anderson spread. If his mom would have said word one, he would have told her to fuck off and die (even though he'd never actually said that to his mom before), because she was intruding on His Turf, and a Man's Man wouldn't stand for that.
What he liked about solo Frisbee at the beach was the fact that it facilitated his second-favorite activity of all time; smashing sandcastles. He'd wait till the kids were almost finished planting their little paper-cup turrets and popsicle-stick cannons, and then he'd throw the Frisbee over in their direction so he could run after it and 'accidentally' trample their architectural masterpieces. He didn't particularly like the sound of the children crying after their sandcastles had been destroyed, but it gave him a sense of power; validation that he was, in fact, a Man's Man, and no one was going to fuck with him.
But his number-one first-most-favorite activity of all time was trolling the Literotica website, one-bombing stories at random, whether the story was good, bad, or in between. Red H stories were especially attractive, since red is the color of blood, and it would excite him even more. Sometimes he would even make airplane noises as he dropped his one-bombs, pretending he was a pilot in a WW2 documentary, desecrating the green fields of Germany, Japan, or some other country full of evil people he knew nothing about.
"Take that, you commie-fag-pussy," he would say into his imaginary microphone, flying his imaginary P-28 one-handed. Or sometimes he would make zapping noises like out of Star Wars. But the WW2 scenario was the most common, since it was more appropriate for a bombing run.
Leaving derogatory comments for LIT authors was an especially thrilling adventure, since he could sign them as 'anonymous' and say anything he damned well pleased.
'Your writing stinks like dogshit.' 'You should be using brown text, because this is crap.'
(These were both comments he'd copy-and-paste from other posters, because he could never have come up with anything that clever on his own.)
The only stories he showed any mercy for were the ones about mother/son relationships. He would read them slowly, hanging on every word, but he wouldn't vote on them, or leave comments, out of respect for the subject matter.
But tonight there would be no time for one-bombing stories at the Literotica website, because tonight, he was going out on a date with a real live girl. And it wasn't one of those sleazy bitches from Strip-O-Rama. It was a college girl he met down at Jack-in-the-Box, where he was assistant manager.
Her name was Pamela, just like Pam Anderson, except that this Pamela had virtually no tits whatsoever. But he was okay with that, because he was a Man's Man, and a Man's Man doesn't judge women on breast size alone. He also takes into consideration fragrance, tattoos, butt-shape, and type of car. Although Pam was weak in most of those categories, she was driving a new Mustang convertible when he met her, so this put her in the barely-acceptable category for a Man's Man.
While getting ready for his date, Troy took an extra long Man's Man shower, assaulting his pasty-white skin with the soapy washcloth. After he dried off (vigorously) he put two layers of deodorant on, and he even rolled some on his balls, just as a courtesy to Pam, who would surely be down there at some point during their date. Then, satisfied that his hair would dry with the perfect amount of poof in the front, he strode confidently into his room, throwing a little salute to his Luke Skywalker doll. He pulled on his Jockeys and stood in front of the mirror, flexing his imaginary muscles. That's when his mom walked in.
"I think you should wear your new sweater, Troy," she announced, laying a hand on his bare shoulder. "I take it back," she fawned. "You're so handsome, it doesn't matter what you wear."
She gave him a little squeeze, pressing her large mushy breasts up against his back. He could feel her nipples straining against the sheer silk robe she was wearing. He could feel her lipstick-lips brushing up against his neck.
"Mom!" he giggled, squirming free from her grasp. He ran to the closet and pulled on a pair of clean jeans she'd just brought up from the laundry room.
"You'll be home by midnight?" she asked, gazing lovingly at her only son.
"Sure Mom, sure," Troy said, climbing into a clean polo shirt his mom had just brought up from the laundry room. She turned to go, giving him a little wink as she dropped a twenty on his dresser for 'gas money'.
She was always doing that, and although he knew a Man's Man would never accept money from his mom, especially if he was working full-time and living at home rent-free, he had no choice since his car payment took most of his paycheck and his credit card bill took the rest. It was just a matter of economics, something he'd been studying quite a lot lately, over on the Rush Limbaugh blog. Now, there was a Man's Man, Troy thought to himself as he bounded down the stairs.
"See ya, Mom," he smiled, ducking out the door before she could snag him for a goodbye kiss.
He strode out into the trash-strewn yard, shoved the key into the lock of his jet-black Silverado and sighed. It was almost better then fucking, the way the key felt going into that lock. At least that's what he'd tell anyone who would listen. The Silverado was proof that he was a Man's Man, and anyone who doubted it could just eat his dust while he ran them off the road and sped away.
He was supposed to pick up Pam at the Jack-in-the-Box where he worked, but he told her it would be better if she waited in the parking lot since his 'employees' were quite intimidated by him, and he didn't want to pressure them if he wasn't even on duty. (Actually, it was because of Pam's deficiency in the breast department, which was quite embarrassing to him, and he didn't want his 'employees' seeing the two of them together.)
He pulled into the rear entrance of the parking lot, and there she was, all five-foot one of her, sitting on the back of her Mustang in her low-rise jeans and pink tank top. She grinned when she saw him and, in spite of her pitifully flat chest, her grin made him feel all warm inside. He had to admit, she was the hottest girl he'd ever dated, with her cherry-red lips and her luminous blue eyes. Even her hair was blonde like Pamela Anderson, and it occurred to him he should snap a picture of her on his cell phone, just so he could prove he'd actually been out on a date with a blonde. (But, just to accentuate her good side, he'd probably turn her around and take the picture from behind.)
"Hey," she grinned, climbing up into his Silverado, "where to?"
"Um..." he stammered. "Um..." That's when he realized he'd missed one crucial detail in his preparations for this very important first date with Pam; he had his condoms, he had his Tic-Tac's, but what he didn't have was a plan. He had no clue what they were going to do since he had virtually no experience in the field of dating.
"We could go to Green Carpet Golf," he suggested, watching her pull the seat belt on, hoping for some kind of movement under her tank top. (He saw none.)
"Sure," she smiled, folding her hands on her lap. They drove off into the night, making a feeble attempt at conversation, but it was like a tennis match where neither opponent had enough skill to return the ball over the net.
