Fred Phelps is an angry, angry man. He is angry about the secret feelings of pleasure that well up within him when he imagines a gentle finger brushing down the crack of his ass, and slowly, lovingly tweaking his chocolate starfish. He positively writhes with fury at himself for the powerful desires that fill his heart when he fantasizes about a thick, hard, well-lubricated cock sliding between his thighs, and softly invading his dark, hairy valley, before pushing, pushing, oh so gloriously, against his anus, opening him wide, invading him, and pumping, pumping, while his partner reaches around with a strong hand to rub and pinch his sensitive mantits, causing him to groan and scream with ecstasy. And because he is so angry, he lashes out at those with whom he associates these terrible, terrible longings, and those who remind him of his unspoken shame.
That’s what it is with the fucktrumpet.