In the hardcore homosexual underworld, a mysterious silver vial is being passed around. Hairy leather “bears” paw over each other defensively. Gym rats in jockstraps flex their biceps for attention. In the corner, an innocent “twink” boy sucks a lollipop and prepares to pick someone’s pockets clean.
They’re all positioning themselves for the next hit of a notorious disco drug known as “the poppers,” and thrillseekers everywhere say once you’re hooked on that magic, you’re always turning back. Back against the wall, that is. For this secret elixir is all about sexual penetration of the buttocks.
Gays have long been known to have a grab bag of tricks and treats to recruit the innocent. They’ll use marijuana and necromancy and even the internet to promote their outrageous lifestyle. They want to lower your inhibitions, lure you into their dark lairs. They lust for true masculinity, the sweaty tang of a soccer player’s armpits, the thick fur of a cowboy’s chest. These sadistic sodomites will do anything for a whiff of that raw virility.
You will never know where the homosexual has hidden his vial of poppers on his person. But rest assured, it’s there. Deep within a secret arsenal of gay seduction that can include condoms, cocaine, crystal meth, and the synthetic party drug Truvada, it’s there.
At the bar or the sauna, he lies in wait. Maybe it’s in the bathroom of your local library. Or the abandoned warehouses down at the docks. When you least expect it, the magic little ampoule appears. He will dust the air around you like a shaman invoking the spirits. Suddenly, the devil mist bewitches your nose. You inhale. The rush to the brain is instantaneous.
Many say the poppers fog conjures up a moral panic attack. You feel broken and weak. You doubt yourself, your commitment to heterosexuality, to marriage, to love and even to Christ. Then a throbbing need erupts. You must fill the void in your life. Most shocking of all, this volatile drug causes your anal sphincter to surrender. That’s when the penetration begins. You press your body against the wall and cry. Think of a construction worker jackhammering the pavement. You’ve been mounted. And then it’s over just as quickly as it began. There is no greater insult to a man’s naked soul than a popper orgasm in some lonely bus station toilet.
Look around as we exit this scene. The homosexuals will be high-fiving each other. “Another recruit for the team,” they’ll say. Another heterosexual marriage ruined. Another teenager’s life chained to Satan’s tail. The gays have a slang name for someone like you. Yes, you’re a “bottom” now, friend. Get used to it. At the bottom of that grimy liberal sewer we call modern life.