i was a mere eighteen years old when i first fucked. it was a truly amazing experience at first. however, the monotony of beautiful women throwing themselves at me soon grew too immense to ignore. everywhere i went, amazeballs 10/10 qts were begging me for premarital sex and i, being a gentleman, couldn’t refuse. they couldn’t make me enjoy it, however. while my ten inch cock penetrated them, i would dissociate from reality, often fantasizing about leaving my life as a hunk behind and starting anew. but deep down i knew that wasn’t going to happen. i had accepted that i was doomed to be sucked dry by sultry f*males for the rest of my life and i had given up on being happy…until reza came along.

it was a cold winter morning. i got up out of bed just like any other day, flanked on both sides by models. “come back to bed,” begged one of them (i can’t remember her name). “can’t,” i said bluntly as i placed my bare feet on the cold floor tiles and made my way to the kitchen. as i ate my breakfast, i pondered what to do with the day. as i heard bedsheets rustling in the other room, i resolved to escape my 2700 square foot mansion and the whores occupying it and get onto the streets. surely an opportunity would find me there.

on the streets, no one can stop you; you can literally do whatever you want. of course, since i am a law abiding and moral citizen, i simply strolled about the decrepit and befouled los angeles metro area. everywhere was crime and pain, the sidewalk littered with garbage and dead bodies. “this city ain’t what it used to be,” i said out loud. a mexican bum concurred. Suddenly, a huge gust of wind came from the west, almost knocking me off my feet. as i struggled to remain upright (mainly due to the odious fumes of la wafting into my face), a flyer hit my chest. i pulled the piece of paper off my chest and read what it said:




why, that’s today! i thought. my opportunity from God himself had finally come. i crumpled up the paper and threw it in a nearby recycling bin, sprinting off in the general direction of the signing. after about a hour of running hog wild through glendale and frantically asking pedestrians for an address, i found it. i entered the small bookstore and there he was: Iranian-American author, public intellectual, religious studies scholar, producer, and television host reza aslan! oh boy was i stoked to meet this guy!

despite it being well past noon, the line to get mr. aslan’s signature was still spilling out the front door. i knew that if i didn’t get his signature soon, then his pen would run out of ink, signaling the end of the signing. i was desperate and willing to compromise my morals, so i cut to the front of the line. i’m a pretty big and intimidating guy, so this was not much of a problem. i got a little guff from the fag at the front of the line, but all it took was some zip ties and my alpha male fists and he got the message.

blushing and nervous, i approached reza-senpai. “yes, what can i do for you?” he asked. i extended to him my hardcover copy of Global Jihadism as a Transnational Social Movement: A Theoretical Framework and stuttered “y-yeah i’d like you to s-sign this, please haha.” my nervousness must have been endearing, because he smiled and wrote: to my most epic fan, thanks for reading! reza aslan

as he handed me back the book, his eyes squinted and an inquisitive look came across his brown face as he brought his pen to his ear and shook it. it was apparent to everyone in the room: the pen was finally dry. a slight intj smirk crept across my face as my perceptiveness and intuition had saved me from disaster once again. how predictable.

i made my way to the door as the crowd dispersed into the night, but before i could leave, a familiar far eastern hand touched my shoulder. reza stood smiling at me, surrounded by armed bodyguards. “hey lol,” he said. “hey,” i replied. “ya know, i don’t normally do this, but you seem like a pretty cool guy. would you like come up to my penthouse?” of course i said yes; who am i to refuse a c-list celebrity?

reza’s penthouse was modest and tasteful, if by modest and tasteful you mean luxurious and elegant. i almost felt jealous (i didn’t really tho, because i own a 2700 square foot mansion). reza started the night by putting on marvin gaye’s classic r&b album what’s going on. “chardonnay?” asked reza, holding up a bottle. “oh, i shouldn’t, teehee!” i giggled as he poured me a glass. we spoke tastefully of our philosophical musings and artistic inspirations. we both agreed that luis buñuel was, without a doubt, the greatest 20th century filmmaker, and that pablo picasso’s work and character could only be described using the r-word.

by my sixth glass, it was time for dinner. “i have something special cooking for us,” he said. the smell from the kitchen was delightful. when it was finally time to eat, he emerged from the kitchen with a huge silver platter covered by a lid. no way, i thought. could it be?! a gigantic toothy smile crept across his vaguely foreign face and his bindi lit up. “yes,” he announced gleefully, “my signature dish: chilled monkey brains.” he lifted the lid on the platter and revealed a decapitated primate with its fucking brains sticking out. “eat up, my friend,” he said as he took his dining fork in hand and went to town. it was like nothing i had ever tasted before. i must be the luckiest guy in the world, i thought.

then everything went to black.

when i awoke, i was in my bed with one hell of a headache. it was morning and i was alone. strange for a stud like me. as i rose from the bed, my legs felt like lead; i could barely move them. in fact, my whole lower body was sore. it was then when i felt a wet sensation on the front of my boxer briefs. i touched my groin, brought my hand to my nose, and whiffed. yep, cum: that much was certain. but whose cum was it? mine? reza’s? some unidentified third party’s? there was no way to tell.

by the time i waddled my way to the bathroom, the puzzle pieces were starting to fall into place in my head. the cum, the sore posterior chain, me inexplicably waking up in my bedroom. i almost had it solved when i flipped on the bathroom light and screamed. on the mirror, written in lipstick and in reza’s unmistakeable cursive, was something that shook me to my core:


that was it; there was no denying it. based on the evidence and my empirical nature, i came to a startling conclusion: reza aslan had raped me! at first, i was in a state of shock. i didn’t know if i should kill myself then and there or wait until he had been put behind bars.

as i weighed my options in the solitude of the bathroom, i looked at myself in the mirror. already the aids was withering my face away, and no amount of looksmaxing would fix the hiv wrinkles tearing my head apart by the second. and as i looked at the unfamiliar, withered skull in the mirror, i knew my life would never be the same.