Lady Gaga's Donkey Punch

Lady Gaga had finished a three hour set at Madison Square Garden and was kicking back with her entourage at The Boom Boom Room, of one of New York City’s most exclusive clubs.

Near her sat a group of Wall Street, hedge fund types. That sort of greed driven, slicked back hair asshole wasn’t usually her type, but there was this one guy amongst them who instantly caught her eye.

He looked like a younger, more handsome version of Gordon Gecko from the 1980’s flick “Wall Street,” with the same haircut, Armani suit (though of a more recent fashion), and overall air of arrogance about him, but for some reason, perhaps the copious amount of alcohol she'd consumed, she couldn’t look away from him.

Pretty soon, Lady Gaga was dancing with her friends, mostly women and homosexuals, and before she knew it, they were engaged in a full blown conga line, which began to snare up the entirety of the club's patrons.

As they danced through the club, Lady Gaga noticed that in back of her, holding her hips, was the hedge fund asshole she’d been eyeing earlier.

“Hey there!” He shouted into her ear, over Britney Spear’s “I Wanna Go,” which was thumping from the club’s sound system.

At first Gaga ignored him, playing coy.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?!” He shouted into her ear again, as the conga line passed by the bar.

Being famous meant everything to Lady Gaga; hell, she’d even titled her record “The Fame,” and this Wall Street asshole not knowing who she was pissed her off even more than the mere fact that he was a Wall Street asshole.

Incensed, she broke out of the conga line, spun around, and got in his face.

“You don’t who I am?” She angrily screamed over the music, when, ironically enough, the DJ started playing her song “Judas.”

“Nope, sorry. But you look familiar.” He replied, stone-faced.

“I’m Lady Gaga!” She screamed, even more pissed off.

“Wait, the singer?” He replied, with a smile. “That’s where I know you from. Of course I’ve heard of you… Sorry, though, other than when I’m at a club, I don’t listen pop. I’m into mostly classical, Chopin, Bach, that sort of thing.”

Suddenly Lady Gaga felt like a bitch for getting so upset. She was actually intrigued to meet a man with refined taste and kind of optimistically thought that maybe he wasn’t just another player jerk trying to nail her so he could brag to his friends about how “he fucked Lady Gaga.”



“It’s okay. I’m sorry for snapping at you…” Lady Gaga said, blushing slightly.

“No worries. How about I buy you a drink and we reconcile, ‘Lady Gaga’?” The stranger asked, his smile widening, revealing perfectly aligned, sparkly white teeth that glistened under the club’s flashing lights.

“Mmm… Okay, but call me ‘Steph.’” She replied, becoming increasingly enraptured by his devilishly good looks.

They ducked around and cut through the conga line, went up to the bar, and downed what turned out to be an endless array of shots. Gaga didn’t remember much after that, other than her and the stranger dancing for a while, and next thing she could recall, they were drunkenly falling into his plush, luxury hotel room at the Waldorf Astoria.

Entering the room, he flicked on the TV to the Golf Channel, which upset Gaga, but before she had a chance to protest, he grabbed her by the arms and stuck his tongue down her throat, aggressively kissing her.

They French-kissed for a few minutes, and then the stranger tore off her high-riding black leather miniskirt and rainbow colored feathery halter top. Gaga unhooked and let loose the black lace bra she’d been wearing underneath and the stranger ripped down her matching black thong and threw it across the room.



The stranger again took her by the arms and tossed her to the large, king sized bed. He disrobed out of his Armani suit in almost military-like precision, slipped off his navy blue boxer briefs and dove onto the bed.

Grabbing Gaga for a third time by the arms, he flipped her over, and she instantly rose up to all fours, knowing what was coming.

And like an earthquake, it hit her. The stranger viciously injected his hard, well-endowed cock, not into her vagina as she expected, but straight into her anal orifice with no lubrication whatsoever (and no condom, either).

Gaga screamed out in a mixture of pain and pleasure as he entered her. Furiously beginning to ram his cock up her ass as hard as he could, he pushed her head down into the pillows to muffle her screams, which had become louder and louder.

After only a couple minutes she could feel his pre-cum seeping into her anus. She was about to tell him to pull out, not wanting him to cum inside her, when… it happened. Just as she was turning her head around to yell at him, she saw his arm cock back, and before she could even formulate words, she felt a blunt force strike the back of her head.

She’d been donkey punched. Donkey punched so hard the trauma had almost instantly knocked her unconscious, and right before she blacked out, she felt the stranger's cum squirting wildly up into her rectal passageway.

She awoke the next morning to the sight of the hedge fund asshole sitting on the edge of the bed, in a white bathrobe, eating breakfast from a room service tray and watching the Golf Channel.

She groggily stumbled up off the bed, with both her head and anus writhing in a stinging pain, and she noticed that the stranger just ignored her, not saying a word or even looking at her.

Spotting her Gucci handbag nearby, she rifled through it, and pulled out her mace.

First, though, she went into the bathroom to piss, washed up her ass a bit (which was bleeding slightly and dripping semen) and immediately upon coming out, sprayed the hedge fund asshole down with the mace, and proceeded to rip the thin plasma TV off the wall and bashed him over the head with it a couple times.

His body went limp and she’d thought she’d killed him, but she could hear him still breathing and saw him occasionally twitching a bit, so she decided to up the ante, and unsheathed the large black dildo she always carried in her handbag.

Gaga hiked up the stranger’s bathrobe over his backside and forcibly shoved the dildo up into his ass. Doing so awakened him, and he began to cry and mumble. After a couple minutes of sodomizing him, Gaga reached back and punched him in the back of his already bloodied head, delivering a cathartic, retaliatory donkey punch in revenge for the donkey punch she’d received from him the night before.

The stranger then started convulsing, like he was having an epileptic fit, and white foam and pinkish vomit chunk type projectiles shot from his mouth, landing all over the white carpet. A couple seconds later his body went totally motionless. Gaga stepped back, waited a second, and approached him cautiously, put her hand to his neck, and could feel no pulse.

All of a sudden, her rage over being donkey punched wore off, and it dawned on her what'd happened, what she’d done.

She felt terribly guilty, her eyes welling up with tears, and she wished she’d just sprayed him with mace or got a bodyguard to kick his ass. But, somehow, perhaps due to her Mediterranean blood, she quickly came to terms with it.

The fucking bastard got what he deserved, she thought. How many other women had he done this to? What type of STD might I have caught off him? she thought, as she felt his semen still seeping from her asshole.

Fuck this piece of shit, she told herself.

Then, a fitting idea came to her head about how to cover up the scene and further humiliate him; she’d make the whole thing appear like a repressed gay suicide.

So she went back to the bathroom, washed the blood from her hands, got dressed, and went around the room, wiping off everything she’d touched, erasing any fingerprint evidence, and she pulled out a Cher CD from her handbag, stuffed it in the room's Bose system, and cranked up "If I Could Turn Back Time" to an ear-splitting volume and set it on constant loop.

Breaking into hysterical laughter, she dragged the stranger’s naked, bloody, lifeless body to the balcony, stood him up, and shoved him over the railing.

The last thing she saw of him was his backside, with the big black dildo still sticking out of his pale, hairy ass, as he soared down to the pavement, his arms and legs outstretched in the wind like the letter X…

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(Pics by Pieter Hugo)