What would make a man kill another man, you ask? I understand the question very well, thank you, and I really want to answer it but, mind you, it will take me some time for me to explain. It’s interesting, because I myself am innocent. I have always been innocent.

I had a decent childhood tucked away in a bourgeois suburb. I went to an all-white high school with very few blacks or other immigrants to spoil my peculiar kind of fun, as every man has a childhood, they say. And it is actually the case that the young alabaster boys there were very attractive. It was one of those schools that one would never find in the ghettos of the inner cities or the rural areas where incest and shotguns prevail. The new center of civilization, you see, is in the suburbs, and it was here that I first beheld these amazing male bodies in my gym classes as a young teenager who had just entered high school.

But I am hardly gay or anything like that. Quite the contrary. I had frequently showered with these young men and noticed their lean bodies, soccer players and swimmers they would soon be. Some of them would go on to play multiple sports, many of them to be varsity lettermen and scholar-athletes. In the shower room I noticed what hung below their waists, like heavy, long-necked birds they were, wet and limp, and soon enough I was entranced, not necessarily by what hung there, but what I lacked and could never imitate or live up to.

Their bodies were supremely white and muscular in an all-American, Aryan kind of way, and I admired them like all proto-Europeans admire Michelangelo’s David. These young men would always succeed. They would thrive at whatever they did, just because they were born the way they looked. They were impossible to be ignored. Their success had been sewn at a time that pre-dated the dawn of civilization. And, of course, they all looked alike and acted the same as a school of fish or a flock of birds.

For a while, I remained in the shadows of the school halls, biding my time until the release that my graduation brought. But I couldn’t ignore that I would never have what they already had born unto them. In no way would I ever be as strong, as brave, as smart, as noble. These qualities were etched in their bloodlines, white upon white for generations of their ancestors up until this final point in time where they would plant their seed again and again and continue to dominate the whole of society through whatever violence, intelligence, spirit, and the very same inborn traits that I lacked. It was perfect, I thought at the time. I needed what they had, and so I immediately went after it.

But I didn’t go about acquiring it in a very conventional or orthodox way. I have a calculating nature, a cleverness about me, whereby I can play the fool to slip into their company, become the object of their laughter, the court jester who thrilled these noble princes in the halls of the schools, the colleges, the malls, the office buildings, anything to have what they had, anything to have those smarts, those privileges that came with being their natural born selves.

I never had anything of the sort in my own life, you see. I was the antithesis of what they were, even though, yes, I had white skin and Aryan features, but I lacked the qualities that would make me one of them. I was ugly and awkward somehow, even into my early adulthood. Call it a failure of my genetic line, if you will, or some strangeness of character, or some spiritual malady, or just a simple lack of confidence and an abundance of cowardice. And as they often say, cowards take the rashest route. Such a statement applies to me.

As I said, I wanted their parents’ wealth, their college acceptance letters, their cars, and especially, their women. I can say with all honesty that their women were the most impressive I have ever seen. For someone who had grown up on the subtle pogrom of glamorous images on television and movie screens, masturbated to the white, slim, and half-nude figures on glossy magazine covers and discovered these real-life mannequins in only the nicest parts of town with an entourage of other eager look-alike males, these women had nailed all of them.

These women had the most seductive, blue-eyed, Nazified eyes in the world. Their blonde hair, straight down their backs, could have been the softest parts about them that I would never, ever touch - their long flowing locks and what was buried deep between their legs. But this was for the men in the shower rooms alone. These women were theirs for the picking. They were ripe fruit, peaches from branches that these lean, lithe men coated over with their splendid milk and sucked on in holy abundance.

These were delicious women. These were succulent women of class and culture, objects of beauty to behold, and I became ever so careful to please them in every way possible while I had the chance, because I knew at the pit of me that I was different. I wasn’t like the others. And in no small way, they knew I was different too. Even the ugly girls in the school tried to look like these women but failed miserably. They gave their men blow jobs in the bathrooms, but they were simply dumped for the beach bunnies, cheerleaders, and future centerfolds that they really wanted.

I carried these women’s books, washed their cars, donated to their blood drives, drove them home after drunken high school parties where these men easily fondled their virgin bodies, sucked on their clits in the spare bedrooms and bathrooms of their houses while their parents were away on vacation. And I watched them do it. When I went home, I imagined them doing it as I lay alone in my bedroom, dreaming up their shadows on the ceiling, closing my eyes and imagining them.

I did everything these people expected of me in the most gentlemanly way possible. And most of all, I made them laugh by playing the fool, so somehow their men would love me. You see, my strategy was that these women would love me in the same way the men did, capitalizing on what they loved about their men by loving me as they would a cute child, a clown, or the comic relief that they sorely needed, so that they could join their male counterparts in the joy and amusements of my abuse, their eventual copulations, marriages, jobs, successes, yes I say, successes! And because of what I made of myself for them, they did love me indeed.

I was overjoyed by their love, their constant attention, their affections, their laughter, and all the while these women slowly slipped behind the shadows of their men, smiling and laughing all the same, but up to a point, you see. I had never prepared for the cutoff where these women began to ignore me and latch onto these more manly figures before them, these men well-hung and lean and muscular and so white that they bronzed like Roman gladiators in the sun.

And once they adjourned to their respective colleges, and I stayed behind in the town to mow their lawns and rake their leaves, I immediately blamed the women for ignoring me, even though I so badly wanted them to return and laugh at me again. I wanted to possess the hearts of every one of them. So, I pulled their weeds, cleaned their pools and cars, delivered their packages to the post office, just like I had done after I barely passed High School. But they were the ones who had crushed my dreams of loving them, forever making love to these harder, well-hung men, as I hid forever inside myself for the rest of my tormented days, my strange imaginings providing enough temporary relief to slog through one more miserable day of being in the town and breaking my back for a smile, perhaps, as they fucked their college sweethearts in their master bedrooms and marble bathtubs. Yet, they rejected me at every turn, because they knew how much I cared for them. They knew how much I adored them and worshipped the ground they walked on, but they didn’t notice when they should have known already that I would do just about anything to please them.

But I was the funny guy in school. They guy who made everyone laugh. The guy everyone would remember but no woman would ever take into her bed, as I was ugly, and tiny, and warped, and short, and inadequate when it came to fitting between their thighs. And they never sensed it. They never recognized my pain, my hunger, my isolation, my slow self-destruction, when they should have known while they skied as newlyweds at Vail or swam on the beaches of Nantucket or played in the gardens they inherited from their in-laws. Where were they then, I ask you? Where were they when I needed them?

They had turned cold and cruel. They ignored me. They made fun of me. They said I smelled when I tried to talk to them at the bars. They laughed when I moved into dance with them in the nearby city clubs. They called me fat, a fag, a pervert, a loser, and after a while, I could not take their abuse any longer. Despite growing up among the most beautiful of them, my love for them turned to hatred when they passed me over for the same type of men I witnessed in the locker rooms of the High School, yes, those same well-hung men who fit between their legs nicely, those same men who made money and supported them without lifting a finger, the men who would be able to pay for their sons and daughters and usher them through the same county day schools I went through, while they tossed me a quarter for doing their laundry and running errands and chopping their wood for their seasonal fireplaces.

Their abuse of me didn’t end there, though. Soon enough, after looking hard at them, I found that these women, the objects of my most ardent, unfailing desires, abused me deliberately. Yes, I say! They were stabbing me on purpose, bludgeoning me upon their alters by seducing other men and totally ignoring me. For years upon years I had thought and brooded about the reasons for their cruelty, until a solipsism of my ruminations developed, and I was unable to figure out why they hated me when I had devoted my entire life to them, devoted my entire being to their well-hung Aryan men and their children who soon took over their father’s role to direct me on when to mow their laws and clip their hedges and wash their new European sports cars that their Daddies bought them.