The Emasculation of Edward Cullen

A/N: This fic is rated M for strong, offensive language and future lemons. If you aren't old enough to buy a lottery ticket or sign your own permission slips for field trips then you should not be reading this. Now, scoot!

DISCLAIMER: SMEYER owns all things Twilight.

I own 2 cats, and a fish. Why do I feel like I got a crappy deal?

PROLOGUE

8=D

"Oh, Edward! Oh, my Go—I'm gonna... I'm gonna... EDWARRRRRRRRRRD!"

I was pounding that like there was no tomorrow. Jessica Stanley may not have been able to remember her own name at the moment, but the bitch sure as fuck would never forget mine! I was pretty sure we had acquired an audience outside Mike's parents' bedroom door. That was par for the course, though. I was accustomed to walking out of a room after a good, hard fuck to a round of applause and envious glares. What did it matter to me? We were all drunk off our asses anyway. Few, if any of us, would be able to conjure up fuzzy images from tonight's post-graduation bash. That and the fact that I owned this shittastic school lock, cock—or is it stock? Does it fucking matter?—and barrel only fed my shameless attention-whoring ways. I may or may not have even bowed as I stepped through the doorway, buttoning up my fly as another cup of "hunch punch" was shoved into my hand. The stuff tasted like piss, but I wasn't about to 'fess up that I had a bottle of Goose stashed under the seat of my shiny new Dodge Viper. That was for later, after I'd pried myself away from these cock-gobbling losers. All I could think was, "Thank God I was done with this hick town and heading to UF in a month!" The Viper was a graduation-slash-congratulations gift from Daddy Dearest for my actually graduating without an arrest record and a 3.8 GPA, as well as a full football scholarship to the Football Mecca that is the University of Florida. The Grey Goose was a gift from Dad, too. He just didn't know it yet.

The Golden Boy, Cullen. That's what they called me. Hell, it was proudly etched in the sign that marked the entrance to Forks High: "Welcome to Forks High. Home of the Spartans' Golden Boy Cullen." Ever wondered what a free pass looked like? Well, just turn to page 213 in the yearbook and look up "Edward Cullen." It's there, in black and white, just under my picture—"Golden Boy." There really is such a thing as too much fucking power. I just hoped like hell that I hadn't peaked in high school.

Football was its own religion here in the Pacific Northwest and I was a god, a football god, but a god nonetheless. Pair that with my disgusting hotness and near-genius I.Q. and there wasn't anything I couldn't get or get out of. That little piece of self-knowledge was almost my undoing. If it weren't for my saint of a mother praying for my immortal soul 24/7 and my pansy-ass need to please her then I'd have been dead in a ditch somewhere, impregnated two-thirds of the female population of Forks High, or flunked out long ago.

I couldn't help it that the powers that be deemed me worthy of all the good fortune I'd benefited from. I don't know; maybe they figured that someone as painfully good looking as I was who had my talent needed all those brains to keep me out of fucking trouble. I could only imagine the shit I could have gotten into if it weren't for all the gray matter shoved up into my cranium. It was fast thinking and even faster talking that kept my friends and me out of jail on more than one occasion. That small town police chief, Chuck Swan, could suck my balls. He was just a glorified Barney Fife. Stupid hick town cop. He was the bane of my teenage existence. I wondered for the umpteenth time who had died and made it his job to fuck with me every opportunity he got. The guy had real issues. But that was water under the bridge, because as far as I was concerned, I was blowing this shit hole and never looking back. This fish was moving to a bigger, better pond.

Don't get me wrong. I'd thoroughly enjoyed that chapter of my life, and probably more than I should have. Definitely more than I should have, legally speaking. Between the underage drinking, the smoking of the occasional joint and copious amounts of sex between minors—regardless if it was consensual and they were the ones getting off on me—I had done more than my fair share of shit to atone for. That "get out of shit free" card was priceless. Who wouldn't love four years of having their every need catered to? Horny, Edward? Let's just slip in the back seat of my dad's Toyota and I'll suck you off. Need an extension on your homework, Edward? Done. How's an extra week sound? Hungry, Edward? Order whatever you want on the menu; it's on the house! Some dumb fucker messing with you, buddy? Tell us who he is and he's a dead fucker! Can't risk you hurting those Golden hands of yours over some prick who can't keep his mouth shut. I was ready to leave it all behind, though. I had bigger fish to fry. Onward and upward. The world was my oyster, and I was ready to shuck 'em, suck 'em and eat 'em raw!

How was it then that I came to find myself duct taped naked to the flagpole in the center of campus early one morning, my Calvin's flying high overhead, and just my Golden Boy hands clamped protectively over my junk?

8=D

A/N: So, what do you think of Dickward? I have so many awkward, embarrassing moments planned for him on his journey. Want more? Let me know. Don't leave Golden Boy in a bind. Haha!