Call me a Cock-Blocker

Call me a cock-blocker-     Who's the bitch in this dogfight?

Call me a cock-blocker. Bring it.  I don't care.   I can rant and rave with all the high falutin' moral grandstanding I can muster, but in the end, I know the truth stems from the fact that this is about cock-blocking.

I have a girl-friend that lives across the hall from me with enough qualifying attributes to consider her my fag-hag.   She is a corpulent co-ed of 30 with barely more than a handful of punches on her dance card.    The first time I became aware of her happened the night I moved into our building over three years ago.  As I was unpacking boxes, I heard a series of gut-wrenching screams and the meanest epithets and personal insults ever wielded so openly into the atmosphere for everyone to hear.  I could tell it was a domestic squabble that was turning into a possible felony manslaughter based on the flurry of fuck-yous and below-the-belt kicks in the gut I could discern from just behind my door as they filtered down the hallway.  Words like "fat-bitch" and the like filled out the crux theme that the girl seemed to shrug off,  but then one day, the familiar screaming intensified and grew deeper.  The flying insults  became more personal as they revealed vulnerabilities about the girl's parents.  Trina, the girl across the hall had been adopted as a baby like me. I discovered this after a night we bonded together sharing stories of our own childhoods growing up with this deep-seated common theme shaping our development.  When her abuser screamed, "You don't even have a real mother," all of the pot-shots he volleyed at her weight were nothing compared to the effect this attack had on her identity as was revealed through her barely discernible phrases muffled through tears that turned to sobs I could only hear through her door if I opened my own.
It wasn't long after that incident that her boyfriend didn't wake up on Monday morning.   He was discovered by maintenance during a routine inspection with the exterminator.  Word spread fast throughout the building that he had committed suicide but he hadn't exhibited any of the dramatic showmanship that usually prefaced his previous suicide attempts. This death was simply the effect of  a lethal combination of his usual drunkenness and one too many units of black-tar heroin he occasionally chipped at when he could find someone to administer it for him. He wasn't experienced enough with the latter to learn how to hit himself.  Poor dumb-bastard and Good riddance were the sentiments expressed after his demise.  No one shed a tear.

I grew closer to my neighbor Trina after her boyfriend was dead.  I have been in similar situations putting up with abusive sociopaths because I subconsciously thought I didn't deserve anyone better or maybe it was because a large portion of my sociopaths were self-described straight guys stuffing the caveat that they were fucking and maintaining a relationship with me as anathema to their heterosexuality which they occasionally held on to for dear life.  This always manifested in them bringing a girl around which I was wont to put a stop to by frightening the girl off with high-drama faggot fits of  jealous rage that sometimes resulted in physical abuse when my boyfriend/prize-stud-dick beat the hell out of me for thwarting their chances to get some pussy".   It made me sick to my stomach with the desperation I'm sure Natalie Wood conveyed in Splendor in the Grass as she castigated her mother for offering to "call the boy".

I wasn't relating to the subject matter she spoke of about not being spoiled because I had been "spoiled" again and again as fags whose favorite pastime is to fuck tend to be.  It was the emotion and desperation I identified with. The fact that she was willing to do something desperate, i.e commit suicide over a boy was an emotion I had entertained countless times.
I gave up having feelings for men I used for sex long ago because I had spent years traversing the trail back and forth from the ER to the psych ward in one self-mutilating, destructive act of desperation I railed against myself to stem the tide of pain and betrayal I felt from the parade of men I never heard from again after a night in my boudoir, bathhouse, bed or bushes in the park.

Trina lives less than two steps away from my front door. I can lean over without leaving my place and rap on her door which I do regularly whenever I need her to come over or invite her for dish and gossip about my failed or latest conquests.   I never intended her to be a potential threat or competition because we are different species.    A casting breakdown of her character if this were a film would read, "early 30s,  corpulent to plus-size (by misogynistic standards of beauty that are rife in the world's standards)  I'm not taking a stance or saying anything about the injustice for women this entails who don't fit the skinny bitchy standard Stepford model of sex appeal favored by the majority of consumer advertising campaigns but it is the reality, whether we like it or not.  My issue is that these trashy, prison trade hard-core conflicted fags with whom I'm acquainted will always go for the nearest younger albeit female simply because she lives within the  closest proximity of my front door.  I don't share my tricks and certainly not with a girl. I like girls in the sense that  when I am with them, I identify as a girl. I take part in all of the conversation oriented dish sessions and beauty regimes that many of them share with my set of past times.  When they cross the line from sympathetic and willing ear to becoming a willing target of the misguided motives of my castoffs trying to salvage their perceived heterosexuality by hopping into the nearest vaginal hole they can find minutes after I've hosted them from behind...  the door that it becomes  a problem.
If that makes me a cock-blocker,   I'll go to any lengths.
I should report the situation to the manager of my building and punish  the neighbor who hosted the offender as an overnight for allowing him to use the girl  as a port in the storm.  I don't begrudge Trina for her penchant for penis. I'm a size-queen, cock-crazy faggot whore myself. But she's not going to become a willing receptacle for my leftover castoffs.   It's too close to home.   Judge me if you will. Call me bitchy, rancid and petty.  They were my fag throwaways. She's not going to be their fly-trap simply because she's the trans (as in transitory)

vaginal mess.