Being a big Prince fan, the biggest Prince fan of all time, mind you, it just about killed Hugh Renassle when the artist formerly known as Prince changed his name to that squiggly-looking pi symbol thingamajig. He almost didn’t get over it. For weeks Hugh Renassle locked himself in the closet, pissing and moaning, trying to make sense of a world gone mad, his bawdy, bitchy wife calling for him to “get your ass out of there, be a man for a change.” Prince, his Prince, the greatest pseudo-faggy rocker ever to set foot on the stage…gone, all gone; replaced by a symbol to find the circumference of a circle, with an arrow sticking out one end. Crazy, he bemoaned, hiding behind the clothes in the blackness. The whole thing was just crazy. He consoled himself, tried to bring himself out of abject sadness by telling himself that Prince was still with him, he could still play the same songs and jack off to the CD covers when his wife wasn’t home, only now he’d just be jacking off to a symbol.
No. No, it would never do. He could never jack off to pi. This was it, he told himself. It’s over. All over.
Suddenly in his torment and really racking his brain over it, he went and had a vision, a self-induced apparition brought on by his hyperventilated, famished, and parched euphoric state: his beloved Prince had not left him, rather, the artist formerly known as Prince had shown him the way. Of course! That was it! Why hadn’t he seen it before?
His wife was right. He WOULD become a man. Prince, the artist formerly known as that greatest stud of modern musichood had indeed shown him the way—the way to reinvent one’s self, leave the past behind. And best of all, yes, do it as a MAN.
When he emerged from the closet after nine long days of fasting and remorse, he found his wife absent-mindedly watching Oprah Winfrey on the telly. Boy was she in for a surprise, he thought. She’s gonna be sorry she ever suggested it. Be a man. Hah! I’ll be a man. I’ll be a man, all right. Hugh Renassle’s mind was racing; his whole future was laid out before him. The lack of food and oxygen had taken him to a new level of consciousness.
“Honey,” said Hugh, “I’m gonna change my name.”
“What?” the Mrs. said uninterestedly, not looking up from Oprah and a bowl of popcorn.
“I’m gonna change my name.”
“That’s nice,” she replied.
Hugh Renassle waited. He stood there, wanting her to ask about his new name. She was more interested in the popcorn. A commercial. She was more interested in that. Hugh got closer. He made a nuisance of himself by just standing there, though careful not to obstruct his wife’s view of the TV.
”Well don’t you want to know what my new name’s gonna be?”
“What?” she finally asked with a mouthful of popcorn and obvious annoyance.
“What?” she scoffed, nearly choking on her mouthful of Orville Redenbacher.
“You heard me. y_n0t_g0_4_1t. From now on you have to call me that.”
“Get the hell outta here,” she declared.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“So am I. Now get outta my way,” she demanded.
He had, in fact, inadvertently meandered in the way of her television viewing. This was a bold move for the husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle. For years he’d had to put up with his wife’s insensitivity, her bossiness, her disrespective of him. It’s a wonder they ever got together but then, she had big tits, and Hugh was always a tit guy, and as for her, well, she came from a lousy family and just wanted the hell out, and yes, back in the old days, in the new days of their relationship, she was kinda thrilled that she could drive a guy as wild as she could drive Hugh with her tits. She wasn’t a classic beauty and her upbringing had instilled in her less confidence than her killer body might have otherwise. She looked like a cross between Pat Benatar and Allie Sheedy but more robust, with long, straight black hair down to her waist. No, more confidence should have landed her a firmer man, a man with more confidence in himself. Still, it was nice how his face lit up, what she could do him, dangling those boobies at him. And nobody had ever given her a “pearl necklace” before, not till Hugh. But he was a weenie and she’d seen that and had grown all too bored with her mastery over him. But this was a new day. Even she could see something had happened, some weird, stupid, grinning change had come over him. Why was he just standing there?
“Did you do some drugs while you were in there?” she asked.
“That shit-eatin’ grin,” his wife continued. “You okay?”
“Let’s take a shower,” y_n0t_g0_4_1t said emphatically.
“Mm,” she mumbled, munching away. “Maybe later.”
“No—now,” he insisted.
The husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle grabbed his wife by the arm and yanked her off the sofa bed, leading her down the hall. “C’mon,” he urged.
“All right,” she said, setting the bowl down hurriedly. “What’s your problem?”
He was the manly man. He was y_n0t_g0_4_1t. He helped her, urged her, forced her to take her clothes off, and nudged her forcibly into the shower.
“Why’re you acting this way?” she demanded. Ignoring this, the husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle was taking pleasure in washing his wife’s nude body, spending an inordinate amount of time washing under and over her 36Ds.
“What way?” he asked after the long pause.
“You’re being awfully demanding,” she said, a threatening note to her voice.
“Nevermind,” said y_n0t_g0_4_1t.
“Okay, I think those’re clean now,” she said, meaning her boobs, of which her husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle was still lasciviously soaping, squishing, slavering up.
The two of them rinsed off. He helped her wash her hair. But he was rough in this, yanking on the end of the long, wet rope of hair several times, pulling her head under the shower jet. She was growing ever more annoyed but figured this would pass. Everything with the feckless husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle did. Everything but this Prince thing. What was it? She HATED Prince.
Another yank, rearing her head backward, had her neck and shoulders writhing. Okay, she thought. This shit has got to stop. He got soap in her eyes. She suddenly realized at last—why she’d grown disgusted with this idiot—it was Prince. She hated Prince. Prince was a fag.
y_n0t_g0_4_1t shut the shower off and stepped out and toweled off. “C’mon, babe,” he demanded in an exaggerated manly voice.
Oh, brother, she thought.
She stepped out and toweled off, and the husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle toweled off, Mrs. Renassle wrapping one towel about her boobs and torso, leaving her bare butt naked in back as was her immediate custom upon exiting a shower, and she busied herself drying her hair off with a smaller towel. She swiped her hand over the mirror, wiping the fog enough to see, examining herself.
The husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle had just snapped his wife on the rump with his wet towel. On her butt, on the side of it, a red mark was instantly formed.
“Hee-hee-hee,” y_n0t_g0_4_1t continued laughing.
“Ow, you bastard! That hurt!”
“Hey, easy now. This is y_n0t_g0_4_1t you’re talkin’ to.”
She watched him as he coiled the towel up again for another strike. He wouldn’t. He’d never, thought she. You gotta be shittin’ me!
“Why you sonuvabitch!” she exclaimed, wincing and biting down on her bottom lip. She stood there and licked her lip, her small hair-drying towel falling down to her hip in her hand.
“I’monna getchyou,” she steamed.
“y_n0t_g0_4_1t knows how to treat his women. Treat ‘em rough—isn’t that right, momma?” he bellowed, parroting some old cowboy movie he saw or something, and he had the balls to follow this with another snap, this time partially deflected by her intercepting hand.
“All right,” she fumed, “all right. You wanna play that shit? You wanna?” She busied herself, hastily coiling up the smaller towel.
“What—you gonna try it? Huh? C’mon.” The husband formerly known as Hugh Renassle stood proudly naked in the center of the bathroom. Growling ridiculously, aping Clint Eastwood now, “Go ahead. Make my day.”
A flick of her wrist and the towel flapped limply out and fell back. Nowhere. Not even a snap.
“Awww,” he teased, “Can’t hang? It’s like this—“
Same spot. Same damn reddening spot, side of the hip, base of the left buttock. She grimaced and squinted, and took it all in, and proceeded to coil up her little towel again. The behind-the-back wrapping job she had done with the larger towel around her boobs and chest had come undone, but so absorbed in coiling the smaller one was she, she let it fall to the ground, and her boobs jiggled freely with the intent movements of her arms and wrists.
“C’mon, baby doll. You know you don’t want—“
It was perfect. Caught him right up under the balls just where she was aiming. Up and under, the hanging bag jingling with the strike. Good, she thought. That’ll teach you. She liked his reaction. It was instant. Like the red mark. Rudely hushed with fallen mouth, eyes all agog, nostrils flared wide, stooping and clutching and gaping. The mother of all pains. Princely pain. She got ‘im. She got ‘im good. Payback. A second of delicious stupor which she thought was just hilarious then Hugh went down in a ball at her feet, which she thought was hilarious also. y_n0t_g0_4_1t, or should we say Hugh Renassle, sought the solace of cold bathroom floor tiling.
Still tittering but the more raucous, breast-billowing laughter had passed; the Mrs. knelt down beside her man, one knee up, one down, a breast smashed over to the side by the up one.
“Go-tcha,” she cooed liltingly while stroking Hugh’s still wet hair. “You asked for it,” she chided. Then, standing up, she finished drying herself at her normal pace, then walked out of the bathroom, leaving her fetalized, quivering husband on the bathroom floor, turning the light off and closing the door behind her. Hugh was oblivious to the darkness around him. All he could think about was his balls. And Prince. He could still think about that. He wished his hero could help him out but it suddenly dawned on him: maybe there’s a reason Prince sings in that squeaky, high-pitched voice.
I mean the artist formerly known as Prince. I mean pi with an arrow sticking out.
Asshole, she thought, stepping into her thong panties, D-cups dangling. What a dipshit.
Like I said, Hugh Renassle married a gal who just doesn’t respect him. Before today he had himself to blame. Now he just has his balls. Blame them.