Sunday, August 12, 2007

Making Badboy Cry

by unknown

Warning: The following is purely fictional. It contains explicit sex and violence appropriate to this Website. If you are a minor in your jurisdiction, or if your religion promises you damnation for the sort of pleasure a person might derive from reading it, you are urged to read no further.

It wasn't just the idiotic, insensitive things Kerry said that outraged me, though certainly they were offensive. "Women are basically cows: they give milk, they raise young. They nest, nourish. That's their biological role. Everything else is contrary to their innate purpose, and therefore, everything else they tend to be bad at."

It was also the way he treated women -- particularly, my friend Jessica. I had counseled her against dating him; I had heard that he used women, exploited them sexually, guiding them with a steady stream of bullshit to emotional vulnerability and physical openness. And from the beginning, I saw him doing it all to her.

"Your friend Jessica is really sweet," he told me at a party one night. "I really admire a woman like that."

"What about her do you admire?" He was unable to answer, but I knew it was her looks. It wasn't just Kerry's disgustingly misogynistic comments and his treatment of women that infuriated me; it was also his unwavering self-confidence, his pride, his self-infatuation.

"He's not self-infatuated," Jessica defended him when she was still smitten with him. "He's just got a healthy self-esteem. And Christ, how could he not? He so damn godlike. I mean, do you deny that he's stunningly handsome?"

"Oh, sure, he's handsome. A real heart-breaker."

"He's extraordinarily handsome."

"And he sure as hell flaunts it. Those tight pants? The tight sweats that reveal his bulge?"

"Bulge? Singular? I see three bulges. The guy's hung like an ox who’s just seen his first cow. His package must weigh twenty pounds."

"And he'll use it any chance you get."

Jessica smiled evilly. "You're jealous, Emmy, 'cause he's never once shown the slightest attraction to...guess who?"

I vehemently denied that I had the slightest interest in him, and my denials were truthful. Although Kerry was a dazzling physical specimen, he was also a cad, an inveterate asshole. And while I warned Jessica about this over and over, it was not until he sliced her heart into ribbons that she was able to see him for the deceitful creep
that he was.

She came to my apartment at eleven o'clock one night, crying, to tell me that she had just returned a day early from a brief trip to her parents' house. After three days away from him, she could no longer endure their separation so she drove back to town. Planning to surprise him, she had gone to his apartment. Through the hallway door, she heard the grunts, cries, and gasps of torrid sex. She stood in the hall listening, slowly breaking down, for nearly five minutes: Paralyzed by her anguish; each impassioned gasp and cry from his partner laying another bloody slash upon her heart.

"This happens all the time with him," I reminded her. "You didn't listen to me, Jessica. You can't get involved with guys like him, because they do this all the time."

"This CAN'T happen. He can't do this!" For nearly an hour, Jessica alternated between screaming fury and pitiable, weeping sorrow. She loved him, she said; she had trusted him implicitly. I was neither able to sooth her grief nor still her rage. Finally, she announced that she was going to go over to him at once.

"Jessica: Bad idea. Just forget about him. Or better yet: remember him very clearly, and tell everyone you know how he fucked you over. But a confrontation wouldn't do any good."

"Bullshit," she said, her face swollen and red from crying, "I'm not going to be treated like this." I followed her to her car, my sober advice making no impact whatsoever.

"I'm going to teach that motherfucker a lesson," she said, fumbling through her purse for her car keys. At that point I honestly had no intention of getting involved in
their confrontation. The only reason I went with her was in hopes of diffusing her rage, of changing her mind on the way over to his apartment. Fortunately or unfortunately, that's not what happened. I did get involved.

Up until the very second when her fist pounded on his door I was still trying to dissuade her. The idea of confronting Kerry and some confused, unsuspecting muffin in his apartment made me cringe. Kerry opened the door in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, his
hair rumpled, but his marvelous genital bulge proudly displayed.

After an awkward pause, he said, "Jessie!" with artificial pleasantness. Smiling innocently. "What a nice surprise. Do you want to come in?" It was pure bravado; he knew why we were there. Even if the girl had apparently left, he could tell from Jessica's expression that she was furious and deeply hurt. He looked at me disapprovingly, and frowned as we both walked in. Closing the door, he said critically: "I expected you tomorrow."

"I guess you did," she shot back. "I guess I caught you at the wrong time." She glanced into the bathroom, which was empty.

"So where is she, you asshole?" He glared at her.

"Don't talk to me like that." Fifteen seconds of silence crawled by. They stared at each other, and I could feel her unraveling, falling back to the verge
of tears.

"How could you do this to me?" She whispered pathetically.

"My personal life is none of your business." His tone was so business-like, so brutally cold, I felt myself tremble with rage. Suddenly she was crying again.

"How? How? You know how I felt about you!"

He shook his head, rolling his eyes, and said, "Jessica, why don't you get a hold of yourself? Why don't you go home and get drunk or something? Why don't you two go to a bar, bitch about men for a while, and just leave me the fuck alone?"

Then Jessica lost it. I never would've expected her to resort to any form of violence, however harmless. But biting her lip, she stepped toward Kerry and slapped him across the face. Hard. The hollow sound of his mouth, the utterly shocked look on his face – I have to admit, I loved that moment.

But it didn't last long. He swayed on his feet -- confused, maybe dizzy, obviously very surprised -- then swung back at her. His fist connected with her head and knocked her to the floor.

See, I had to get involved at that point. I had no choice. Not only did he knock her down, he took a step over to her floored body. I really feared that he would do something else to her, so I jumped in between them. I could smell his sweat, feel his breath; I was very close to him, two inches away, and in our microsecond of eye contact I slammed my knee into his balls. He grunted breathlessly, then fell. For a couple of seconds the two of them were on the floor. Kerry groaning, writhing at my feet, Jessica weeping behind me. She was the first one to stand up, and before I could stop her, she was attacking him: kicking at his chest, his face. When he covered his head with his arms, she followed my example and kicked him in the groin. Once -- he grunted loudly -- then again, with more careful aim, harder -- then a third time. He half-yelled, half screamed, trying to fold up into a tight, secure skeletal corner. She didn't relent until he was sobbing; until she saw his tears mix with blood from his broken nose.

And even then she didn't really relent. She knelt down, got into a brief tug-of-war match with him over his boxer shorts, then hammered at his face until he positioned his hands protectively over his face again. Then she really had him: she yanked his boxers down, and clamped her hands over his balls.

He was instantly breathless. Terrified. She tugged on his nuts, and he squealed helplessly.

"Why don't you get a grip on yourself, Kerry? Why don't you go to a bar and bitch about women for a while?"

"Please," he whimpered pathetically. "Please don't. No." She spit on his face, then stood up.

"Why don't you think twice before cheating on your next girlfriend, asshole?"

"Okay," he wept. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." His hands were laid gently over his genitals, and his eyes were closed. Jessica looked at me, and nodded toward the door. I don't know why, but I didn't follow her right away. I looked at the bastard lying vulnerably, wounded on the ground, and although he was obviously defeated, I still felt nothing but rage toward him. Instead of following my friend to the door, I kneeled down
beside Kerry, grabbed his wrists, and pulled his hands away from his testicles. Then I caught them in my own hands: his famous bulge, his flaunted manhood, defenselessly mine. His balls were large, and probably swollen, but I didn't let that discourage me. He had attacked her; he had broken her heart, and I wanted to be sure that he remembered
how we broke him down, ravaged his male bravado.

The power I felt while I tried to pull his balls up to his throat was damn near ecstatic. He was a quivering, sobbing mess, and I absolutely owned that boy.

"Do you like this?" I hissed at him, gripping his heavy balls as tightly as I could. His squealing face shook, No. "Well, this is what we do to sick men." I gave his balls five sharp, fierce tugs, really hoping they'd just come off, which they didn't, then let go. Rising to my feet, I couldn't resist one last shot. My foot found his testes, still, dumb targets, and probably kicked them right up into his skull. This isn't just some wild female revenge story. This is a brief instruction manual on how to treat men who mistreat ladies. It's very simple: their balls, so delicate, so fragile, are there for a purpose. Don't forget to use them.

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