Cinderella Man [boyxboy love story]

This is a boyxboy story, which means boy on boy action.  I started last night and couldn't stop writing and it became, well, LONG.  This chapter is NOT clean.  If you are okay with boyxboy, then you can read.  Please, enjoy!

Video <Cinderella Man - Eminem> : Okay, I usually hate this genre but Eminem has a few exeptions and Cinderella Man went on the car radio and I finally decided, I liked it the chorus most of all though.  Even though it's simple: Cinderella Man.  And that's how it all started so, enjoy!

         ★.¸¸.¤´¨ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ◕ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬००҆'˚'҅०◦∙ ☆ ∙◦०҆'˚'҅००▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ◕Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ´¨¤.¸¸.☆

Once upon a time… that’s how these stories start, right?  Well, anyway, it’s supposed to go like “once upon a time there was a boy named John”.  Wow, that sounds dorkier than intended.  I give up, anyway, my name is John and I live in New York with my father, my very wicked step-mom, and two ugly step-sisters.  You know this isn’t an average story, so what makes this different?  Well, I’m a guy, obviously.  It’d be pretty awkward if my mom named me John if I was a chick, right?

            “Get out of bed, you blithering moron, you’re supposed to take your sisters to the damn party!”

            If you haven’t guessed, this is my step-mom.  Yeah, the “wicked” part fits right in.  Okay, here’s her intro: her age is a mystery.  She’s says she’s in her late-twenties – with two dumb teenage daughters, yeah, okay – she looks like she’s in her mid-thirties, but I asked my stupid sister, Caroline, how old she was and she said in her mid-forties.  Well, I never got the guts to ask so I left that one to Sherlock Holmes.  Another fact is that she forces me to call her “Mother”.  She doesn’t truly care for me, but the charade has to go on.  Her real name is Vicky – Icky Vicky, I secretly call her – and she has the pale blond hair, ice blue eyes, and deadly pale skin.  She looks like the Ice Queen from the original Narnia movie.  But except she has more work done on her breasts.  I heard stories of her, since she was once the most eligible bachelorette before my dad married her when I was twelve.  She was rich as can be but still craves more pictures in magazines and more money to waste.

            I opened my eyes and frowned, “I’m up, woman!”

            “Don’t use that tone with me, lazy ass!” she snapped, eyes glowing, “Get up and hurry, you idiotic faggot.”

            “Don’t call me that, she-devil!” I snapped right back at her.  I tore the sheets off and sat up.  She was staring at me, no blinks, no reaction, for a very long time.  Slowly, raising an eyebrow, I spoke up, “Are you checking me out, Mother?”

            She snorted, “Where did you get that necklace?”

            I grabbed the silver cross hanging from my neck, “From my mother, hag.  Now leave.”

            “I never gave that to you,” she said, confusion etched into her features.

            “From my real mother,” I frowned, glaring, “Now, please, leave me be so I can get up and drive your ‘precious’ daughters”– I mean, “slutty” but yeah right, like I’d say that to her face –“to their god damn ‘party of the year’”– I mean “party for the Blue Bloods (blue balls if you ask me)” –“already.”

            “Lose the swearing and the tone and you got a deal, ass-wipe,” she told me, swishing her hips as she walked out of the room.  She glared at me, “And please, John, don’t embarrass them!”