The Tuck Rule.

The tuck rule in football is what gave Tom Brady a Super Bowl, but in drag, it's the only place your shla-ma-lama-ding-dong can go.

Not a plot twist, but more so a shaft turn and tuck-under.

Not a horseradish but your baby apple.

Your banana-nut stuffing.

A chef's secret stirring stick.

An early sunrise surprise.

A pope's only friend. 

--Your dick--, I'm talking about your dick.

We all get a dick when we're aggressive, call it the dirty T or testosterone crazies, not Tuscon Arizona, that's another dirty T.

But I apologize we're getting "a head" all over ourselves… There are just too many innuendos to swallow.

The tuck rule is either when you tuck your dick into your butt to cover your bulge in the name of fashion or when an offensive player in football makes any type of arm movement for a forward pass.

When I was a kid I thought the tuck rule meant that women secretly had their dick and balls tucked into their vaginas. Women were able to pull it out at any time if they really wanted to, but they didn’t because men would often retaliate if their wife’s dick was bigger than theirs. I was told it was an unspoken secret for a wife to never show her husband her dick, unless it was undoubtedly paramount or when inside the Presidential Oral Office.  

This meant that when a woman got pregnant the baby could choose to either push the dick out or attach the dick to itself when it's in the womb. Hence-se-de-say, becoming a boy. 

Or-so-fact-bones, my “friend” was of course making all of this up. 

Boys choose penises because they’re genetically dominant and aggressive.

Girls choose vagina’s because they’re genetically caretakers and empaths. 

This is what my friend told me when I didn’t know any better… 

When the only book I ever read was the bible. 

When time felt like forever. I daydreamed consistently about growing up and finally being somebody. 

Back then I just wanted a friend to tell me cool facts because all I ever did was think about what I didn’t know. 

Back then before America died. 

Tell good jokes. Wait for your moment to be somebody. I’ve been holding my breath for my moment ever since… 

I think that time is now.

Right now I'm painting my fingernails peach. There are glitter freckles on my cheeks. The bathroom door bangs. 

Back then he told me women have their dicks slowly fall out after birthing a girl. But if a woman only births boys, then technically she's one of the bros because her dick would grow back, and she would have it warm and cozy for safekeeping.

“I know your mom has a secret penis,” I told this other boy, swinging on the swings during recess. 

A few months later I found out his parents got divorced.

This is when my friend educated me that once a little girl is born, a mother’s dick is gone forever. 

“Little girls run from little boys, and little boys chase little girls,” I was told, “... because little boys are mad their penises were stolen,” said my friend, who used to pee in the sink during recess with his posey cheering him on.

I stood in the back, confused as always with most social interactions during grade school. 

We were snowflakes trying to be permanent. Seasons change. Time moves forward.

One day I came to school in a pink shirt. 

“Are you a f***ot,” said the kid who wedgied me with his own boxers, because he said, “Your ass would look better in leopard print.” 

He grabbed me by the shirt collar and pushed me up against the wall. 

I thought I was gay, only because he told me. I didn’t know what to think. He said I was a f***ot so I guess I was? 

According to the Christain bible, the word f***ot first appeared with the meaning “a bundle of sticks.”

A buddle of sticks used to do what? Cook your meat.

Now whos the f***ot.

The internet is not kind to kids who have no semblance of context. 

This was my first impression of what being gay meant, a burning useless piece of ash. 

I looked amongst the crowd of my classmates, with their pimples and braces, untied shoelaces. Girls with tissue boobs and the boys with their hands in their pants like it's the last fry at the bottom of the bag. 

Members of the crowd grew steadily in anticipation for the next punchline this kid was going to lodge into my gut. 

“Listen dufus, all I’m saying is,” the boy snickered, then looked over his shoulder as his two twin girlfriends in pink pigtails wrinkled their noses and covered their mouths, giggling like they just found out Micheal Jackson was black. “You’re a f***ot,” he said, high fiving himself, then he shook his own hand with the other. 

The girls escalated to falling on the floor, toppling over on their bellies. “T..tt..thats so m..me..messed u..up..,” is what they said with their mouths with a guilty conscience. But when they banged their shoes and fists on the floor I felt something much different.

I finally felt what I’m sure a lot of queer people feel at some time in their lives. I felt the pain of every single drop of blood shed for the sole purpose of being queer.

Suddenly, I felt okay. I had my homies in suffering with me and that was enough. I didn’t feel alone anymore.

“Du…d..d.. Dude,” he said still laughing, “... it's really not that hard to get. Your mom has a bigger penis than you.”

I wish I would have been able to trust my instinctual intuition back then, but I didn’t. I fell right back on the track of being what everyone else told me to be. So I listened to my friend tell me more about how I should think. 

He told me ancient history tells us once old monarch kings had their 1st daughter, they always had daughters thereafter. So they needed to chop their wife's heads off to get a new wife, with a new penis to obtain the oh-so coveted male heir. 

My friend told me this. My friend who made me weep into my pillow until it was soaked every day I came home from school.

He told me men get circumcised because ancient Jews believed Abraham was pro-choice and God wasn't. 

To fully disclose and pile on all the facts, he said, the Christians popularized circumcising in the late 18th century, because the head of Kellogg's cereal (Will Kieth Kellogg) was an influential and devout Christain who wanted Americans to stop masturbating. 

Mr. melancholy corn flakes over here thought masturbating was gay because he was gay. He thought cutting the foreskin off a penis would quench our transgressions and a bland breakfast was a great adhesive to wax off our lustful nature all in one band-aide. 

The egg didn’t fall far from Mr.Kellogg, because he was the chicken sitting on it. 

Mr. Kellog-one-hand-bandit’s maid once caught him, passed out a tie around his neck, lines of the white stuff all over the dresser, the bedsheets, and the floor. 

The police promptly arrived and found him maniacally laughing, lines indented on the sides of his face from grinning too long. His eyes were rolled back, cheeks puffy red. The dogs were licking his hands inside his whiter-than-white tidy whities. His lips were flakey. Wipe off the crusties of his ashy skin, falling off effortlessly like the crumbs of a freshly baked croissant. 

The forensics team determined the majority of substances found at the scene were a mixture of powdered, brown, and 100% pure white cane sugar. 

The good stuff. 

Corn flakes were unfrosted for over a half-century because Will Kieth Kellogg was so horny that he thought sugar would make people masturbate too much. 

He wanted everyone to be just as repressed as he was, so he cut off our foreskins and fed us plain cereal.

Look it up, I don’t make up the fax, I just send em bitch, no copies. 

Surprisingly enough this was the only truthful thing my friend told me. It was indeed an ipso-a-fact-hoe. 

(That's made up pig Latin or as I call it, bacon Greek). 

I think about Mr.Kellogg often, because he hated himself so much that he couldn’t tell the difference between his problems and other people's problems. 

But now I will admit I do have a problem and that's the first step isn’t it?

My problem is I want people to hate me. It makes me feel safe, but only as far as I can reach. There is nobody with me, just me in my safe bubble, alone, but safe. 

I want people to hate me when I have sex.

I need the headboard to drown out the sound. I need you screaming so I don’t hear my grade school best friend calling me f***ot anymore. 

I never knew how deep I buried my coffin of unsafe sex until I’m putting on makeup, padding myself with a cotton swab to soak up the damage of not being able to stop crying. These are tears of reverence, not grief. 

I don’t feel safe, I feel terrified. 

But that’s okay. 

I think of all the bad dates. The drunk calls, the late-night extravaganzas with people who were never worth my time. 

I miss when things were simple and I had time to worry about these things.

I am as they say a 24/7 employee, not because I am gay, but for “choosing” to be gay as the newly passed Russian law states. 

Gay per Russia as in:

Anyone who wears scarves when it's warm.

Anyone who dresses like a pirate. 

Anyone “suspected or deemed queer by the police” will be charged with a Class F felony or in other words a sexual exploitation charge. Once sentenced, the convicted is forcefully moved to a new living and work assignment. 

Per my parole agreement, I am required by law to clean dog poop by hand off the premises of a wealthy mansion with more secrets than your mom’s penis. 

All hell broke loose when Russia took over the Ukraine and Trump took back America. The two countries joined arms, before Putin cut Trump's arm off, froze it, then put it inside a glass case at the Kremlin as a permanent headstone for just how under attack the American white man felt. 

Pay 120 Rubles to sniff your nose right up Putin’s ass. Be my guest and buy a ticket. 

America is now Russia. Say that out loud once and tell me what your spine does. 

We don’t have hamburgers anymore, just pies with meat on them. There are more white people too, so much more white people, too much. There are white people now that fight with other whites on who is more white. 

If you think mansplaining meatheads doing political podcasts was bad before… Let me tell you, all I have to do to hear about how the white men are under increasing attack is to go read our country's constitution. It’s embedded like branding on a cow. Burn enough bodies and the symbol sticks. 

Kill me once, but stab me twice, because I keep waking up in this nightmare. 

America’s always risky democracy business crumbled faster than you can say… 

“Stop being a Cock-a-mouth, just let me in,” says the whitey white chick, but she's a good one. We both do things like reading and talk about our dreams like good friends should. 

(Cock-a-mouth (adj)- someone who speaks too candidly and needs a phallic object in their mouth to remain silent or come back to reality). 

We’re both white but gay so in today's Russia, we are classless, faceless, and forgotten, just as all other minorities are, most of them getting the sharper end of javelin than us. 

“I’m not decent,” I tell her, embarrassed that all I did was tuck my dick with duck tape and think about how I’ve been called gay my whole life and what that really means.

Queer people didn’t make up the terms we were called, but we still have to use them.

Imagine someone shitting on a red brick and throwing it at you. You pick it up, bloody, and get yelled at for taking ownership of the brick.

We used the piles of sticks and shit bricks you threw at us to build our house. 

Don’t be mad if the house stinks, or if it's confusing or you don’t understand. We never got the chance to be understood. So show us some human decency and help us finish building this shitty house of ours… please… 

The government per law tells me I can sleep during breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but no more. 

They tell me I must eat only a company-provided liquid diet with all essential nutrients as well as antidepressants and mood stabilizers for worker morale. 

The drink makes me skinny, but I haven’t felt my feet touch the ground since my first sip. 

I am thinking about my next meal right now, my mouth watering, my brain throbbing… I need it… I need it… 

This is required for all house staff so we can work as long, efficiently and happily as possible.

I sleep four and a half hours every day. 

If you don’t sleep, you don’t eat. They give it to you right when you wake up and it's time to go back to work. I guarantee you have never savored anything more than I do 3 times a day, on my walk to pick up poop. God, it's ecstasy at its peak. 

I’ve learned to fall asleep basically on command, it's the best vacation, just give me a stone wall to lean on or a nice field of dirt to bury myself in so the guards won’t catch me away from my work assignment. 

Doctors on the dark web say dirt acts as an antidepressant. If you hold raw dirt for over a minute the little happies come rushing on the backs of endorphins to hug you. 

Right now at this very moment, I'm powdering my face with foundation to save my life. These nails could be the difference between a bullet in my brain and my first tuck rule performance of a lifetime, the Dufrain Ball. 

Step 1: Disguise yourself as a woman. 

Step2: Get into the Dufrain ball and seduce a rich guy.

Step 3: Take his shit. Get past the checkpoint. Hop the wall and run. 

It's so hard to tone white skin when wearing a white dress.

My face looks like a powdered donut, my body like a skinny vanilla luffa. I need to be more of a skinny vanilla latte. 

My broad shoulders raise the breast part of the dress to my lower neck. You can see puffy shoulder sleeves about to rip, holding on for dear life as if I’m wearing a toddler life vest. 

I knew I should've gotten the cocktail dress. Cinderella is so prom and the Dufrain ball is where bitches get that paper. I need to show some ass. 

These guests at the Dufrain Ball are so rich you could hand them cash money and they would blow their nose with it. I’m talking sugar daddies like it's Christmas.

GILFs with bad handwriting and a ransom’s worth of inheritance money. 

If I touch my chin to my chest, the fatty skin just under my chin looks like I have a neck boob. 

If doth es havith no bra, how will thy make boobs?

I’ve never even been a bad bitch before and I just feel totally overwhelmed with all this last-minute taking over the world thing Russia has got going on. 

“Sugar, let me in,” says the whitey-white chick telling me to hurry up, because it's only a matter of time before the guards notice we’ve been away. 

With jokes I can do anything with a punchline, a zinger, I feel like I’m levitating off the ground, moving your mouths up and down like there are puppet strings attached to my fingers. 

Just laugh baby I know you’re tempted. 

The most dangerous trick of all is fooling a white man into giving you the privilege of taking his stuff for some magician's coochie.

-Poof- I got a dick yo, -bam- I'm a magician bitch. 

Banging on the door, “I can help you,” says the whitey white chick.

“Fine,” I tell her. 

I open the door. She sees me right through me and I have no way to make it stop. 

“We have so much work to do,” she says, looking me up and down, my knees crossed, touching as if I had just peed myself for the first time.

“Oh honey,” she says, taking my wig off, and fixing the bangs. “We need to beauty you the fuck up and this is not it honey. Here.”

She wipes the runny makeup off my cheeks and hands me a corset, fake eyelashes, and 3 rolls of toilet paper. 

“You tucked how did it feel?” she asks.

“Like saying hello, but goodbye in a way I never knew was possible,” I say. 

She looks over her shoulder to see if anyone is watching. “How big of boobs do you want?” she asks. 

“Enough to make a Russian want to fuck me.”

“That's freedom,” she says.