Thursday, September 20, 2007

Facing his weakness the hard way...

By hughgee

“Come on,” the tall, gawky man said, a bead of sweat running down from his flattop hairdo. “Time’s a wastin’. I paid for thirty minutes here.”

“Awright, awright. Just hold yer horses,” she said, snappishly, chewing on gum, chewing on her tongue as well. She sounded and looked like Fran Drescher, but was more realistically built, having a few actual curves to offer underneath her gray lunchtime female executive suit.

They stood opposite each other in the sweltering apartment.

It was his turn. “Now, I want multiple shots—remember that. Once you start going, don’t stop. I want it all, baby. Gimme all you got.”

She raised her eyebrows in disdain, peering up at him, blew a pink bubble over her red lips. “Are you sure about this?”

“Course I’m sure.”

“You want multiple? I mean, you’re not crazy or nothing, are you? I don’t wanna be goin’ to jail over hurtin’ no crazy man.”

His nostrils flaired, his hair bristled, though it already was bristled. “Look, I’m a real man, okay? I can do this. I’ve got macho all over, now do it.”

She took two steps and was within reach of him. She put her hands up on his shoulders, looking up at him. She looked apprehensive. Like she had experience in this kind of stuff; experience he was apparently lacking.

His jaw muscles clenched tight in his cheeks. His hands hanging at his sides turned into fists. His face peered down at her and something like rage over took it. “Come on!” he urged, “Remember—keep it coming! They call me Numbnuts! I can take it! Keep it kicking or I won’t pay y—“

His words got cut off as her bony knee thrust up into his groin. He had gone completely silent over this single blow. She went to knee him again but halted it halfway up when she saw the strength; the cocksuredness immediately leave his face. She waited two seconds on one foot, in something like a half-flamingo position, watching him nervously. He looked like a man who’s every single possession had just been confiscated by the IRS and this worried the hell out of her. By the time she went to kick again he was bent over so her knee hit him on the top of the head, the next knee on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she complained in that annoying New York accent, “don’t make me kick the top of your head? You want a broken neck or what?”

A second later he was on the floor, writhing around like an accordioned straw wrapper that someone was dripping carbonated soda on.

“Multiple shots, huh? Numbnuts. Don’t look so numb to me, bub.”

She had her hand on one hip, alternately examining the nails on her other hand and peering down at him, as he began to make loud soaring groaning noises, like the sound of distant but emphatic ghosts.

“Wait a minute—you tryin’ to commit suicide or something? Multiple shots. Listen, you’re a MAN, y’silly. You can’t be doin’ stuff like that wit balls. Dem balls is sensitive, y’know? Didn’t y’momma ever teach you nuttin’?” She blew another bubble and it snapped loudly. “Geez, I heard o’ guys committing suicide by cops, but not suicide by me. I could get in some kind o’ trouble for this. One shot is enough. That’s all you get. I ain’t never killed no man before and I ain’t about to yet. I am a lady, no matter whatchoo or anybody tinks.”

She waited, stood over him. “So, you gonna pay me or what?”

He could not answer. His scorched pathetic moans continued. He was in a fetal ball with his hands in his crotch, but it was a flailing fetal ball that she now had to step away from...but not before she reached down, took his wallet, extracted every green bill inside then walked out, high heels clacking.

"Hope I didn't bruise y'manhood too bad, Pete. Nice doin' bidness wit yous. See y'round maybe."

She closed the door behind her. The room went dark for the most part, except for the beam of light shining through the blinds on the suffering, sweating forehead of the guy she'd just left prostrate in one blow.

Det. Wojo Strikes Again (REVISED)

By hughgee

Detective Daphne Wojciewski needed answers. The guy wasn't cooperating. His fault. It was he who'd jumped her from behind just as she was exiting her car. He was much larger, far and away the brawnier, but his narrow male hips were no match for her equestrian thrusters and, while he reached and wrapped a semi-chokehold on her, she'd driven her big bucket posterior backwards, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. The big man fell like a house of cards.

Still, he'd have been up in a second were it not for Wojo's quick turnaround and even quicker toe blast: the black pleather pump split his kneeling legs like goal posts and sent him down to all fours—but she wasn't finished yet. Her big butt shot horizontal outwards like a polyestered horse’s rump as she bent at the waist--her tight gray business skirt preventing her from squatting—and here fought off his feeble manipulations of protest, and she thrust an insistent hand down the front of his button-fly jeans.

Got 'em.

"Your balls're coming with me. I suggest you follow," she said smartly, bringing him to his feet. He complied but stood shakily. Wojo saw he might go down again any second.

"Don't do it," she snarled, squeezing some more. "You're gonna hang yourself if you fall.”

(Business-like. ‘What’s with this bitch?’ his frantic thought. Everything business-like!)

“I ain't lettin' go," she advised with a shake of her head, red hair rising and falling. A lion’s mane and this bitch bites.

"OOO!—OOO!—OOO!" came the involuntary high-pitched ejaculations under the moustache, the lips forming on “O,” protruding and quivering. Quite an octave raise from the deep, imposing baritone he'd originally accosted her with.

"Talk!" she insisted. Twisting and watching and making the “OOOs” go harder, faster, higher. She was face to face and sick of it. Had enough and the day was young. Brown saddle of freckles over her nose wrinkling up as she glared and menaced. It was that time of the month and WHY NOW!?

"Who sent you?! Was it Louie Rocco? Hm?!"

Nothing. Grunts and feeble squeaks and heavy eyelids beating frenetically and eyes rolling up back into the head and down again. The guy wanted to talk. Fact is he couldn't. Wojo was her own worst enemy: She played too rough.

Wojo scanned her surroundings. "Hmph," she said, satisfied at something.

"Come." She lead him over to the right, off the sidewalk, him pelvis first, her walking backward and pulling. When they got to the chain link fence she stopped, and with her free hand struggled at his fly and then, voila, his package was out, exposed to the open air, but still being strangled by her slender, pale, merciless digits. Her free hand now went into her purse, brought out a pair of handcuffs.


The big man's chin was jutting up to the sky, Adam's apple bulging. He did a big in-over-his-head gulp a-la-Vince McMahon as he felt the cold metal go noose-like around his 'nads. Wojo tugged upward on the cuffs, testing it, letting him know what he was in for.

"Aye! Aye! Aye!" the man squealed at each tug, standing on tip toes throughout.


"There," Detective Wojo said, then, laughing, added, "How long can you walk on water?"

Standing on tip toes with his package cuffed to the fence a few critical inches too high for comfort. Trouble. ‘How'd he get into this?’ he thought. What'd the boss send me after THIS bitch for? Shit. Shit. He puffed and huffed and his mind raced as he sought a way out--but no way. There wasn't a way. This was really happening. ‘Shit! Get me out of here!’ he thought. Boss! Help! Anybody! His hands clung to the fence; he looked down and around and dribbled panic-stricken saliva like he was thirty stories up.

"NOW you'll talk," droned the Lady Dick confidently.

"No!" he said, and he gulped and swallowed hard. "No--I can't--he'll kill me."

"Oh, you'll talk," she corrected, surfeited with dramatic irony like somebody who knows exactly what the hell she was talking about. "When you get tired of hanging on, oh you'll talk all right."

He clung and he hung, clung and he hung. Wojo went back to the car, took out a donut and some coffee, skirt spread wide and thick as she sat on the edge of the hood and watched and ate and sipped quite calmly, quite calmly indeed. A couple minutes went by. Poor guy, she thought. Yeah, she had a heart. Someone under that hard cynicism she felt a little bad for every guy she'd ever de-nutted before. Still, there was that other side she had. One that didn't take no shit; one that's cracking a smile as the poor dumb bastard's legs're beginning to shake now. Yep, calves can't take much more. Look at those white knuckles hanging onto that fence. Give 'im another minute.

She went back around to the driver's side, reached in the open window, extracted a romance novel, then it was back to hood, flipping through pages and more coffee sipping. Gotta do something to fight this monotony, she thought. Look over. Poor bastard's leg shaking like convulsions now. Instant smile, suppressed chuckle.

OOO--the leg went—


Back up on tippy toes now. Oh you poor bastard.

"Okay, I'll talk! I'll talk!"

‘Thank goodness I don't have those,’ she thought. Thank goodness. Doesn't take much to get you f#ckers to talk.

Wojo took her time finishing her donut and coffee, thinking and waiting, reading, sipping, till he was pretty much begging and mewling and would've sold his grandmother out. Serves him right, she thought. Don't jump me. Not if you got balls, you don't.

When she did come to his rescue finally, first she took time to taunt him, rub it in a bit, blow in his ear, brandish and wave that flashy little, precious little, vital little key on the outskirts of his hallucinating peripheral vision. The guy was sobbing into the fence unabashedly. Savoring the moment even longer, she stuck a finger through one of the holes in the fence, wrapped it around and caressed the tight thin bulging skin of his sack with a long red fingernail. Even now, she noted, will a man quiver with enjoyment if you do this. Putz. What a putz. She soundly rapped the end of the finger a few times on the peachy-like bulge--TAP, TAP, TAP--and watched his eyes roll up, roll up, the lids blink, blink, and the dry mouth wheeze and plead. But when she pressed down, when she made like she was trying to leave a fingernail impression on the skin of that peach, then that was all she wrote.

"Okay! Okay! I’ll do anything!—I'll talk! It was Rocco!—he hired me!—it was him!! Lemme go—PLEASE!!"

"Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” she muttered sardonically, then harrumphed satisfactorily to herself: "Men. Easy gettin' you guys to talk. Yeah, too easy."

The fella got his desperate wish. ‘Free at last, free at last, thank goodness they are free at last!’ thought he. He was standing there bent over on top, spacey-eyed and head hanging down at chest level, shoulders in a bunch, and he was hanging on, protecting his liberated sack with all debilitated might.

“Why do you guys try and cover up?” she asked. “You know it doesn’t do any good. A thick pistoned-delivered knee to those same goobers dropped him for good. Detective Wojciewski chuckled and went away, pumps clacking on pavement, went about her daily business and watched her head as she plopped her wide bottom down in the driver’s seat. Damn skirt, she thought. Damn butt, she thought again.

New business she had to attend to. Let’s pay a visit to Louie Rocco, she thought, driving off. Yeah, Louie. He’s got balls. Go get the sonuvabitch. Once and for all.

Big Balls and a Big Problem (Turbo Edition)

By hughgee

The young man stood with his karate gi unfastened, loose and open, in the private mini-locker room of his martial arts studio; he could have his own locker room. Given the budding weakness which threatened his prodigious young career, he needed it. He needed the privacy. He’d had the partitions put up just for this purpose—to avoid the mortification of having…of having…of having to put THIS on. Standing bent-backed, head down, examining his lower extremities, he exhaled mightily as he tightened the Velcro straps around both thighs and his waist. It had to be tight, extremely tight or it might not work. And he couldn’t have that. He knew that feeling. He didn’t want to go even go there. Not THERE again. Stunned, stupefied, abdomen full of killing nausea and his rectum all dilated-feeling, pupils most definitely dilated, open mouthed, his opponent standing over him, triumphant. So defined pectoral muscles went to work, flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed, under the open top to the gi, the bottom pants hanging down around his knees, knees bent, bowed out to hold them up as he worked away with two strapping and likewise well-defined arms.


A high-piping female voice on the other side of the locker room door, a tad impatient-sounding: “Are you done in there yet?”

“Almost,” the young man said, a bit annoyed himself. He sported a dark brown flat top, and dark, imposing eyebrows which furrowed themselves together into an easy angry wrinkle across his suntanned forehead, and a dimple in his chin also became accentuated with any display of emotion, or just plain old disdain. He looked a bit like Henry Rollins, he fought a bit like Bruce Lee, so they said.

He’d had the new cup two months now and already this was getting inconvenient. Still, he knew that without it, he might not be doing this at all. He’d been training in the martial arts since he was a boy and had won all kinds of championships before anybody gave him a shot—he was in fact a kind of young phenom on the AKA circuit—karate and aikido trophies festooned all shelves of his bedroom back home—so successful at such a young age was he that now, at the age of 23, he’d been the owner of this successful studio in the posh sector of Ebor City for some two years. Business was booming. He’d gotten married at 21 to a cute, heavily pulchrituded-out student of his from the very first class he taught, and it was she who helped instruct the very many classes of students his studio now hosted. That was her just now on the other side of the door.

Velcro strapped in, strapped down with straps the tensile strength of automobile seat belts, pinching off the circulation to the legs more than a bit—dammit—the young man bent and flexed and exhaled heavily one last time as he lastly slipped the all-too-generous helping of gonads nature went and stuck him with into the markedly distended silver cup. More than distended it was. The oversized hunk of protective convex NON-plastic was different from standard protective cups not just in material make up—it was solid metal and therefore somewhat heavier—it was also shaped strikingly different—this accounting for great distension. It was in fact shaped, anatomically, on special order from the Kelso Industries Orthopedic Co. of Denver, Co., in the exact shape of a man’s descending, not compressed, testes. His testes—which meant the thing was big. Very big.

A suck of air, a prolonged puffing exhale, muscles on one forearm flexed strong with ripping tendrils as it pulled downward on the metal crotch contraption, the man’s fingers on his other hand gently, carefully, exactingly deposited their precious cargo in the yawning, pitcher-like gullet of the cup—and letting go, it snapped disconcertingly snugly onto his pelvis. But he felt fine, felt protected, at least: his legs may have been turning blue but his balls were safe and sound and oh-so-cushioned. (The inner lining of the cup, just for good measure, consisted of 2.5mm of ballistics foam, the stuff they use in football helmets). Pelvis of chrome protuding, pulling up the pants of the gi, tying the sash around his top, one last self-check of the handsome, imposing profile, and,

“Ready!” he yelled assuredly.

“About time,” said the muffled female voice behind the door.

A quick kiss. Time to get down to business. A noontime martial arts class of about 20, mostly housewives. They were a young couple just starting and bills had to get paid.

It had been his sports doctor’s recommendation about the unconventional cup; it had been a joke of his wife’s to get it made out of 100% titanium when stainless steel would have done just fine.

Thanks honey. Real funny.

The problem really started at around the age of 19 or 20, he recalled. Of course as a boy, in PE lockers undressing and dressing at school, he’d always thought he’d noticed he was just a bit bigger “down there”—not where grown up guys said “it counted,” but rather under. Underneath. He was big in the balls. He’d always had big balls. Okay, ever since he could remember, so he’d thought. But it wasn’t until post-adolescence that they became a problem. A very real problem.

That was when his martial arts opponents started catching on to how this was the one way—the one and only way—to beat this guy on the mat. This guy just didn’t seem to recover from the normal “groin shot” like other guys did. Okay so it’s not like the other guys recovered quickly at all, either—let’s get real here—but this guy, opponents soon inadvertently found, this guy took an INORDINATE amount of time to collect his senses back, to get his legs back under him. Hell, even to stand up again. Forget about it: The lightest hit or swiping graze of a foot would send him off, send him down, put him out of commission for huge chunks of an hour. Once opponents found this out, well, it was open season on his nuts, no messing around. Concerned with suffering this string of surprising, unheard-of setbacks in martial arts competitions he’d formerly dominated, our hero at last went to see a doctor about it, and the doctor, there in his office, had been taken aback for a second.

“Yeah,” came the heavy admission of the doc, “those are big, all right.” She was a heavy-set Indian woman with a thick Bengali accent, wire-rimmed spectacles, peppery-black hair tied back in a bun and, of course, the pasted-on round dot on her forehead like a huge third green eye. She filled up the room with her matronly bulk, and the way she kind of stepped back in surprise when he’d dropped his drawers in front of her had been, for a split second, nothing less than alarming. Making a mental note to kick himself in the ass when he got home for not waiting until his regular “man doctor” was available, this was about the precise moment when the young man gulped and asked if there was something wrong with him—something wrong with…them.

“No, no, not that,” the doctor had hastened to reassure. “Nothing wrong. Just… those are big, all right. Yes, I see.”

“Is it normal?” asked the still-scared young karate-master. “Are they—are they okay?!”

He’d wondered why he’d waited so long to see a doctor about it. The woman squinted, thinking it over, then stated, “Well, you’re about at the limit of what might be considered normal, I see. You see, normally a man’s testes would measure, oh,”—she made span of width between pudgy thumb and forefinger—“anywhere from like this—2-and-a-half, 3 inches. That’s all.”

He gulped again.

“You’re just a bit over that, I see…about…about the size of a chicken egg, you see?”

“CHICKEN?!"—big, dry gulp here--"Is that BAD?!”

“No, no,” she calmly reaffirmed. “You are just a bit over, you see.” The woman put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, steadying him, then chuckled. “You are fine. Nothing wrong with you. You are big and strong.”

“Yeah, but…” he cut himself short, not really all that crazy about saying it.

She looked at a clipboard she’d picked up, then up at the patient again with raised eyebrows, waiting. “Mm-hm?” she prodded him.

“It’s just that—it’s like—well, I’m a martial artist. I can’t—I can’t stand to be hit down there.”

She laughed heartily. “What man does?” she asked rhetorically, making a few diagnostic notes on the clipboard.

“No,” he said, gaining the courage that comes out of pure frustration, and seething humiliation. “You don’t understand. I get kicked down there, it’s over. One hit and I’m done. Like, for the whole day. It just kills me.”

“Mmm,” she mumbled, then set her clipboard down on the counter behind her, then turned to face him again. Both fat brown hands were placed on his shoulders as he sat sullenly on the examining bench. Advice time. Time to share some. “I see,” she began, continuing in clinical fashion, “what you are experiencing is most common for men of your age. For you, just a little bit worse, maybe. For you are bigger, that is why.”

She could tell she’d lost him after “I see,” so she continued further. “When a man is sexually peaking, at his peak for sex age, then you see his testes get real hard.” She made another span of measurement between her thumb and forefinger. “Big hard means very, very sensitive. I see you will see many years from now, when at the time of middle age, then your testes will grow softer. For you not too small still, but soft. And soft mean less sensitive, less sensitivity to hits.” She laughed, propping him up at the shoulders as he sagged with the news. “Though it still hurt then too. I suggest you don’t try too much getting hit there. It don’t feel too good. Not ever.”

Tell me something I don’t know, he thought. Then—a panic came on. His “peak sex years”—were they not also his peak athletic years?! Was this true?! Were men at their strongest also at their weakest? Was this true?! He felt vulnerable, humiliated. His voice was high and riddled with anxiety. “You mean I’m ALWAYS gonna be this way—till I get old?!”

She frowned a bit and nodded, reluctantly and to one side. Forgetting his “Are they all right?” fears of a moment ago, this to him now confirmed his worst nightmare.

“But—but—how’m I gonna compete?!” His breathing began to become accelerated. She’d removed her arms and took a step back, standing there. This to him, this perfunctory gesture, in his suddenly heightened state of anxiety felt like she was telling him, It’s your problem now, buddy boy.

“No! This can’t be! I have to compete! It’s what I do for a living!” Odd for him to be reacting in such a melodramatic fashion, she thought. Did not all men have the same problem as he? Why such a fuss.

“Man, this is bullshit!” he protested, shaking his head, his legs dangling off the table and his pants down around his ankles. “Bullshit!” he yelled, more vigorously still. “I’m gonna get a second opinion!”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “You can do that. They tell you the same thing, you know.”

His mood changed again, on a hairpin turn, back to despair. “Why?” he sobbed. “Why me?” He even began to cry a little. And still the breathing which had accelerated was accelerating still. Squinting at him, clinically-diagnostically through the one open and educated eye, she concluded the patient was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Not in her office, she thought. No situations in the office. She worked hard to get where she was at; off the boat from India then school all the time till now. No incidents in this here office that is mine, she told herself. She reached out a chubby brown hand and grabbed hold of his scrotum, so big in front of her. Let’s see, she thought. Let’s see how they hurt you. His reaction, his breathing, his facial expression changed the instant she clamped down the cold hand. A quick, final sucking-in of air as his back went rigid and he fell silent; totally, all-over silent. She knew the way she to do it, the way she had to do it. She knew she had to make it look as though she were examining him, still.

“Now let me see,” she said. “Let me check these things here.” The two were face to face, and his face was all agog at hers as she poked and prodded, pushed and pulled, down there at his privates. When all she was doing was shutting the patient up, averting the possible hyperventilation, avoiding the “scene” which she was sure would send her “back on the boat.” She was always sensitive to that, irrational as it was, educated as she now was, she never forgot those boat days. Those poor days. Nobody could ever send her back. Never give nobody an excuse for that. Make patients safe, you run a good business, they come back. Nothing bad ever happening in the office. So she would make sure this boy with the big balls, he no make no incident for her to have to explain. So she was now squeezing the life out of his balls to shut him up, and pretending it was part of the examination.

“These here, they feel good to me,” she breathed right into his face, drying out the man’s unblinking, unfocusing eyes. “Whatchoo think when I do this?” she said, pressing down on the convex end of one big testicle.

“Ooo-Hoo,” came the involuntary emission, like air being squeezed past his lips. He couldn’t swallow; she took note of it. Focusing on the one for what felt to him like forever, her four fat and brown fingers cradled the underside of the chicken-egg-testicle while her thumb ran roughshod over the top, rubbing and examining, oh-so-rudely examining. She was a doctor; she’d studied anatomy; she knew the names of every nerve-ending she was deliberately bruising.


“Yes, these feel very, very good to me. Very, very healthy.”


Her thumb kept going, rubbing, hurting, pressing, at the place she knew to be vital. The point where nerves most of them are, most are bundled up together, where they tie to the testicle. No man can stand, no man can stand, can’t stand that, not there, she told herself. No longer dry, water welled up; she saw, in her patients roundly open eyes. The eyes don’t blink still, she noted.

Somewhere inside him where his real self had fled, where it hid crouching, fearful of the pain being inflicted on him, chased there by a fat woman’s brown thumb, his real self asked the rest of his self what the hell was going on. Ain’t I a martial arts master? Ain’t I? Why can’t I DO anything?

“Ooo-Hoo,” was the only outward response the rest of his self—his physical body—overcome with paralysis—could muster. Every tiny massaging motion of The Thumb played hell on him; like a moose let loose on a flower display, each and every movement caused damage, more damage.


The spot she had chosen—that bundle of nerves!—how she knew what she was doing!—don’t move again!…don’t move it again!—Don’t!

“Aaa!—Ooo-Hoo,” said his rounded, wide-open mouth like a monkey in heat. “Ooo!”

“You appear fine to me, young man,” she at last announced, and more importantly, at last letting go her examining damaging hand. She’d have him subdued for awhile, she knew. Instructing him to get dressed, she noted with amusement how he left her office bow-legged and hunch-backed but yes, very, very subdued. He no cause incident in this here my office, she thought. No sir. M-hm. My patients, happy patients. No problems. Nutting, nutting, nutting. You go home, put some ice on them. Make you feel better. Maybe you smart you stop fighting. Not good for balls your size. No sir. M-hm.

Our hero was sure, quite sure, he’d gotten a thorough examination. He was even more sure he wanted no part of anymore doctors. Not like this. Not these guys. No more general doctors. So he went to see an orthopedist about his problem—a few days later when he could walk normally again. He told the guy the whole story—thank goodness, a guy this time—how it was getting to the point where he couldn’t fight anymore. A blow to the balls, just a tiny hit, was devastating, threatening to put him out of work. The orthopedist was a kindly, attentive old man with two gray puff balls of senile hair behind each ear and Coke-bottle glasses. Whatever else the guy was, maybe because he also had balls, the guy was a lot more sympathetic to the cause.

It was as a result of that meeting then that a plan was hatched, measurements were made, and corporations were consulted. Weeks and meetings, correspondence and more and more consultations. And more measurements too. Embarrassing measurements—Kelso Industries sending company reps out, spending a lot of time on their knees, and him naked, standing there, like going to a series of tailors all single-mindedly concerned with his inseam. At last the climax of mortification - he stood and let them take a plaster cast of his nuts. But finally the thing was made, at last it has been delivered, this Frankenstein’s monster of a cup. The damn thing, the high-tech super cup, had cost a pretty penny too. But it was worth it. He fought—and beat—his opponents on the mat, and taught in his studio his amateur, flailing-limbed students, with the same old reckless bravado and impunity.

The young couple walked side by side in matching gis down the hall away from the locker rooms. He, straight and strapping, about 6 feet tall, square-shouldered; she, a full foot shorter, voluptuous as all get up on top and bottom, powerfully built in a feminine way, melon-breasted and bucket-assed but athletic-looking for all of that. They were just about to round the corner leading into the gym when the young man’s wife playfully flicked out the back of her hand and rapped it against the cup which was painfully visible under his gi. He jostled her on the shoulder and she laughed, he protested a bit; an ongoing joke they had—or she had, at least—ever since he’d first gotten it. She got a kick out of the look on his face; she knew he was already terribly self-conscious of the big protuberant rounded-off tent in his trousers. But his resilience, his ability to take her jibes—this was important to her, being a bit of a rabble-rousing fun-lover kind of a person, a “life of the party” type of gal. It was key to her maintaining respect for him. And for him, for the young husband, this raucous, fun-loving quality she evinced was the last straw that had attracted him, had really sealed the deal, for his own personality was quite the stern and stoic, strong-but-silent opposite. So yeah, she was always goofing around and lately, just lately, with the advent of “the Cup,” his balls were the butt of many a catty jape.

Class went off as usual. She lead the stretching and taught the absolute beginners while he worked with those with a little experience, practicing kicking and striking techniques, making the most use of momentum during routine flips. Later both classes combined again and finished up with a brief regimen of strength training on free weights. She watched him out the corner of her eye: he was her man, authoritative and handsome and strong was he. She loved him. She’d been a bit worried over the whole “balls” thing, how it cost him his confidence—even left him depressed there for a bit—but here he was, back to his old glaring, graceful, tutoring self. For his part, he always kept one eye on his lovely young wife over there on the other mat during class.

They were a young couple, all right: still seeing hearts, feeling Cupid’s arrow, exchanging furtive and effusive smiles and looks of lust. She had a short, thin, ski-ramp of a nose and thinnish slivered lips, thinned-out eyebrows and wide oval brown eyes. Her husband would wipe perspiration from his forehead, and he’d look, and he liked the way her short, brunette bob-cut bounced, those behemoth breasts of hers bounced, whenever she’d show the class a strike or a hopping movement of any kind. Girls with big tits. They always had bob-cuts. Shows their boobs more, he’d tell himself. That first ever class, she’d caught his eye—right away. He was young but he knew women—and he didn’t think she’d amount to anything in the martial arts; seemed to be the case with voluptuous women, they somehow lacked the grace. It was as though when their body did one thing, moved one way, struck or pivoted, the rest of their body needed a second or two to catch up. To stop jiggling. To get realigned. He was SURE a girl with breasts like that, breasts the size of mid-sized cantaloupes, would have problems moving around, maneuvering. But she proved him wrong, she got better, she didn’t let the jiggling and shifting of her bodily accessories bring her down, though it was, at times, a challenge (“Thank you, sports bra!”); she’d even won a few tournaments after he’d taken it upon himself to “tutor” her privately. Marriage was inevitable.

After class, in the private locker room, the young man grunted and rubbed his tingly legs and it was taking a bit longer—again—than his impatient young wife and business partner would have liked. She’d been finished and was standing outside his private “ball sanctuary,” hearing him groan and moan and sigh as he released himself from his protective crotch-casing. The KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK came before he’d even begun to unfasten the Velcro and the titanium (yes, those too) buckles.

“Aren’t you DONE yet?!”

“All right, all right,” he said. He hated being rushed.

The door flew open. She caught him one leg up on the locker bench, one leg down. This was perfect as she was in another frisky, jovial mood of hers. Caught him with his pants down.

“Hey—Sweetie,” he tried to protest. “—you know this is my place.”

“Pshh—YEAH! This is your BALLS’ place,” she jibed. “C’—MON!” she said, deftly sauntering into his partially unclothed, spread-legged stance and bringing her hand up quickly into his groin.

A metallic ringing CLINK—partially muffled from the cotton covering of the gi of his sleeve as he belatedly tried to block the shot—resounded through the tiles and showery acoustics of the locker room. Her husband clutched his chrome crotch and dropped to his knees, his head hanging limp at the end of his swaying, unresponsive neck. She stood over him, looking down, fully dressed in street clothes save for bare feet on bathroom tiles. At her side in one hand hung the two-and-half pound free weight plate she’d gotten and grabbed up from the weight room that she’d hit him with—tapped, she would insist.

“Metal on metal,” she boasted, giggling, “Ha-HA! They’re STILL not safe.” She paused. She waited. She set her other hand anxiously on her hip—she had plenty of hip for it—and she waited some more.

”Oh, come on,” she finally said. “You can’t be hurt THAT bad.” She bent over at the waist, and what would have been a thick waist on most other girls appeared as a thin wasp-like segment on her, given her other proportions, the way both breasts were dangling like hammocked udders in a loose-necked purple Angola sweater, and the black skirt bulged at the sides and the back like something equestrianly powerfully was lurking underneath. She put a finger under his chin, then it took two fingers, then three, and finally, she lifted up his face for her to see. His mouth was dumbly open and his eyes were in La-La land, not even trying to focus.

“Shit,” she muttered, and let her fingers away. She sat on the bench beside him, him still on the floor, hanging over, beaten, defeated, she set the little weight she had down on the bench, and she looked at her watch. She huffed. She began counting the minutes, looked at her watch again at intervals. Her mind drifted off. This was getting ridiculous. At last—somebody home again.

“Thank God!” the wife cried, the young man was moving, making an effort to get up and stand again. She had to help him, and when they both figured out, more or less at the same time, that sitting would be the better option still, she helped him to sit on the bench next to her.

“That was four minutes.”

Her husband gave a dumb look of disbelief.

“FOUR minutes, and I barely TAPPED you.”

“I know, I know,” he motioned, seemed to motion her away with one hand though she still was right beside. His other hand stayed fast to his shining big groin. The cup still wasn’t off.

“What am going to do with you?” she said in exasperation. “I can’t even play around with you, I swear.”

All at once he found words. “That was METAL!” he cried.


“So you know what that DID?!”


“It made it VIBRATE.”

She chortled out loud then said, in a voice mocking his, a voice like an utter wimp, “OH! It made it VIBRATE!” And she clutched herself at her groin and made like she was going to all curl up, then straightened herself a second later on the bench and sat proudly, sticking the big chest balloons out.

“Gimme a break—I got THESE things to watch out for. You don’t see ME being all wimpy about it.”

“Yeah but you got a sports bra,” her husband said feebly.

She laughed again, in strictest disdain. “SO?! I still get hit there!”

“Yeah, but…”

“Yeah but what?”

“Nothing,” her husband sobbed. “Just leave me alone.”

“Fine. I will,” said the young wife. “I’m gonna go grab dinner. Guess your balls don’t want to eat.” She unceremoniously exited the locker room, slamming the door, leaving her hapless husband alone on the bench with his balls, thinking to herself, The next time I hear some guy say, “He’s got BALLS” or “That dude’s got BIG BALLS for doing that” I’m just gonna laugh my head off. I’m married to big balls. I married big balls. And they don’t mean SHIT.

Ansible Kisses the Concrete

By hughgee

His name was Ansible. But everybody called him Noone McGoobers. Nobody ever asked why. He also had another name. But by God here was one redneck on vacation who just liked to surf. Or at least he was gonna try to surf. That's what he told his boss anyway. That's why he took today off. To go surfing and get stoned and let the ocean breeze get his mullet and the rat-tail behind all nappier than though and maybe, just maybe, if he was real lucky, he could get some serious skanky chick action going in the back of his VW--VW Bus, if you know what I mean. And I think that you do. As he pedaled it into the parking lot this past morning at Dillweed Beach, the sun was high already, the tasty waves were chopping it off in the distance already, the wind was making his mullet and his rat-tail in back nappy already--and he hadn't even finished parking the Bus. His mind drifted to the new surfboard he'd recently stolen from his neighbor's open garage.

"SON-OF-A-B###!!!" Ansible screamed at the wheel as he whipped it to the right. Some teeny-bopper chick in a used chop-top Cabriolet just cut him off and robbed his parking space! Right in front of him!

"That bitch!" he screamed, halting on the brakes and hopping out, onto the pavement, approaching the girl.

The girl stepped out in a wet suit, sucking a grape lollipop, blissfully unaware. "Oh hi," she said. She was quite young and had a surf board too. Ansible's eyebrows hit the top of his hairline as he saw that she also had one helluva killer body underneath it too. Around 5' 5" with long straight black hair, her wetsuit had a front zipper, and it was open down to her bellybutton, and she had the hardest-looking, roundest-looking, bulgingest-looking boobs just jutting inwards and upwards from the binding prison of tight neoprene. Two giant Nerf balls smashed halfway into her chest. One look and Ansible knew they wouldn't be saggy if they were set free ever. Yeah. If he should be so lucky. He could only guess how big. DD, he thought. Gotta be DD. At least. Ansible was hypnotized. He didn't realize he was just standing there, gaping.

"What's up?" she asked, lolling her lollipop and grabbing her surfboard out of the car. The rest of her was round and bulging too. She just was BUILT, man. Built like mmmMMMMTTTT!!! he thought to himself. Solid, man. Solid. Buff bulbous shoulders; bulging wrap-around thighs; big calves, big arms--even her face had roundish, buff-like features: she had a sunburned ball-shaped nose, a round protuberant forehead, and round jutting chin. But solid. Oh so solid. And all wrapped in black sealskin, save for pink-thonged feet, her hands, her head.

"What do you want?" she finally said, a little annoyed now.

"Oh!" replied Ansible, snapping out of it. "Hey, you cut me off. You stole my parking space."


"You heard me. Hey, I don't really mind, but next time, be more considerate, okay?"

"Considerate my ass! Go away hesher. You shouldn't even be here. This beach is for surfers."

"But I am a surfer. At least I will be after today."

"Yeah right. You look like it. You're a surfer. I could tell from the frickin' mullet. Go away, hesher. Go say Hi to Ozzy or something. Black Sabbath. Yeah, dude. Smoke some dope."

"Hey. Don't talk like that. I didn't talk like that to you. Be nice. I just asked you--"

"Be nice--I'm not gonna be nice! You're a hesher! How 'bout if kick you in the balls? Finish this dumb conversation once and for all. How's that for nice? I hate heshers. Go away, dude. You guys smell."

"Look, hey chick, I didn't do nothin' to you. And as for kicking me in the balls, it won't make it once and for all. I got a pretty tough pain tolerance, since your asking."

"What?! Are you insane?! Why're you getting close to me?"

"No. Really. Listen. When I was a kid. They called me Numbnuts. 'Cause I could take it. I'm good like that. So don't try anything down there or you better just keep on kicking, 'cause after the first 2 or 3 shots, I'm gonna kick your little ass. You've dissed me long enough, surfer girl."

"Oh yeah right. Whatever!" the surfer girl said, driving her neoprene clad knee straight up quite suddenly, six or seven inches or so. That's all. BOOM. One quick, irresistible piston thrust. One; only one; and Ansible instantly felt his guts go to glass; like a baseball bat bashing into a windshield, spider-web rivulets of pain shot everywhere throughout his intestines. His last facial expression before he collapsed and kissed the ground, Ansible's eyeballs frantically climbing to get out of their sockets to get away from the pain. The onrushing merciless pain.

Too late. His lips parted, mouth fell open. He was down.

She saw it all and laughed a little. "Huh. Numb nuts, huh? Good one. Don't look so numb to me. Numb skull, maybe." With that she laughed louder for a time. She kept looking down; put her hair up over one ear with her hand that wasn't holding the surfboard. Smiling, intrigued, cocking her head as

Ansible writhed and breathed like a dying smoker at her bare feet, she roiled her shoulder, then with her hand she re-adjusted her wetsuit over both big rib balloons in her wet suit, and zipped up. Setting her board down, she stepped over her antagonist's prone, pretzeled-up body and, leaning inside the open cab door of the idling VW Bus, put it in neutral, then walked around the back of it and grunted as she pushed. A normally-built girl might not have made much headway, but this girl had thighs. Boy, did she have thighs. All Ansible could do was summon the strength to lift and turn his head. When he did, he saw his beautiful, cherry Bus rolling down the slightly graded parking lot asphalt, then plowing through the sand and crashing into a sand dune.

"Huh," the girl huffed. "Good luck gettin' that out."

"Uhhhh," grunted Ansible.

"Gotcha pretty good, didn't I?" she said, lingering a few moments to gloat. Finally, the surf gods were calling. Time to grab her board and shimmy off.

"Stupid hesher. Good. You deserve it. I hate heshers. You're lousy stinking people--I hate you."

Ansible could only watch. Her shimmy sure had a lot of jiggle. Pink plastic thong sandals flapped away, the first two flaps flicking dust into Ansible's face. The girl, this bulging surferette romance prospect--or so he thought in a moment of idiot lust--she went and she surfed and she had a great time. Ansible didn't. He was f#cked.

4MyMistress Keeps on Rolling

By hughgee

They were about college age but they weren’t going to college, weren’t going anywhere near that kind of stuff, not tonight. Forget about it. In the words of the much larger, more garrulous, and much more rotund of the two young men, they’d “had enough of that sh#t—let’s go do some crimes.”

They wore backwards, maximum-baggy dungarees and backwards baseball caps, one purple, one green, ramrod-newbie visors twisted to either side of their faces, like baseball cap bookends. Their shoes were Birdman Jonny-Come-Latelys, all white straight-up, yeah, you know, with the balled-up socks stuffed under each tongue to make the laces look all poofy. The laces didn’t drag, but neither were they tied. The two shuffled along the dingy sidewalks of downtown Ebor City, oversized long-sleeve collared shirts, one purple, one green, both of them shimmering, silky, open buttoned at the wrists, hiding half their hands ‘cause that’s also supposed to be cool. Yeah, you know it. Spit-shined white wife-beater tank-Ts covered their nubile slight pectorals and skinny six-pack abs. Two young guys out on the prowl for some booty. The smaller of the two pointed at the round rump of a black gal walking on the sidewalk not 15 feet ahead of them, but the taller one smacked the hand down.

“Not that kind of booty,” he snarled. Idi Ott was always snarling. It was always as though he, being such a big oversize guy and all, had to work overtime to overcompensate for that high-tenor voice of his that never changed during puberty, a la John Candy. The two walked on, pausing at every dark alley way, peering down it then moving on.

“Something I been meaning to ask you, Idi,” said the smaller one.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“How’d you get a name like Idi, anyway?”

“My Mom and Dad were Marxist Peace Corps hippies, spent some time in Africa during the 70s. It’s where they met. They fell in love with that Idi Amin guy.”

“The dictator? Didn’t he massacre a whole bunch of people, like, his own people?”

“Yeah, go figure.”

“But Idi…”


“Dude, you ain’t even black.”

“Tell me about it. Why’d you think I changed my name? Now stop calling me Idi.”

“You didn’t change nothing. You just scrawled them tattoo letters on your knuckle, like they’s supposed to mean something.”

Idi Ott lifted his arms and brandished the backsides of both his hands to the little guy. “Shut up,” he said. “You see this? This is me now.” He was referring to the eleven letters he’d tattooed in greenish-blue ink on the tops of his knuckles that said: “4MyMistress.” It looked like chicken-scratch; he’d done it himself, and as he’d miscounted, the last two s’s were jammed up together over the last pinkie knuckle.

“Man, what’s it supposed to mean, anyway?”

“Means if you don’t shut up, I’ll make you.” The little guy shut up, the two walked on, pounding the pavement ladykiller style, like some ridiculous urban version of the Skipper and his little buddy.

“Man,” said the Gilligan-like little guy, “isn’t there an easier way to make some coin?”

“Dude,” said Idi Ott—er, that is, 4MyMistress—“I told you. Rolling bums is quality entertainment. It’s profitable. And it helps keep our great city clean.” 4MyMistress stopped at the entrance to a wide, dead-end alley, made a grand sweep of his baggy-sleeved arms, and adopted a shit-eating grin to his countenance.

“Yeah, but…they ain’t hurtin’ nobody. They’s just poor people, y’know?”

“They’re vermin,” snarled 4MyMistress again in his angry Dewey Oxberger from Stripes voice. “They don’t belong here. Tell ‘em to get a job. Till then, I’m gonna keep rolling them—for fun and profit.”

“Dude, you’re sick. You know that?” his little buddy responded as they stood at the entrance of the alley.

4MyMistress started walking down the dark alley. “Feel free to leave anytime,” he said to his friend who, as always, began following along.

“Man, I should’ve drove. I knew it.”

“Quit your yapping,” said 4MyMistress, kicking a couple of empty, rusted-out cans of Coors.

The smaller man continued to plead his case. “Idi—okay, okay, I mean 4My—listen—listen, bro—we don’t need the money. Your Dad just gotcha them nice shiny wheels, didn’t he? Didn’t he set you up with some of that trust fund business you been telling me all about for years and years?”

4MyMistress kept walking ahead as he talked. “Yeah, and Pops also guaranteed me a position at the firm—a high fallutin’ one too. What of it?”

“Dude,” the little guy insisted, “Dude—that’s my point. You don’t need the money. I don’t even need it. What’d’ya say we just leave these folks alone and go get some 40s and see what kinda bitch action we can drum up.”

“No deal,” muttered 4MyMistress, stopping upon a large brown bundle of rags and sh#t and corrosion behind a dinged-up and rusty old garbage dumpster. The bundle was snoring. Then, shouting in his high-pitched John Candy voice, 4MyMistress reared back his right sneaker and gave the lumpy bundle a kick. Howling erupted as the blanket threw itself off a shabby, salt-and-pepper whiskered gaunt figure nursing a brown bag with a cork sticking out the top.

“We’ve come to roll bums and chew bubble gum,” spouted 4MyMistress, standing with fat paws on his hips over the poor decrepit wino. “And we’re all outta bubble gum.”

“N-n-no…” the old bum tried to say, feebly. “N-no….please…” Another boot from 4MyMistress man sunk deep into the beat-up blanket. His little buddy just watched. Another. The bum went silent. 4MyMistress put a sneaker on what he’d hoped would be the bum’s hip underneath the blanket, and gave a push. Over the sack of human waste went onto his stomach.

“Peel back the blanket,” 4MyMistress ordered his friend. “See how much he’s got.”

“Dude, I’m not gonna—“

“Yeah, you’re gonna! Or do I have to roll you too, y’little squid.”

“Dude, come on.”

“Want me to leave you here?” Giving up, with a shrug of the shoulders, the littler guy knelt down, pulled back the blanket and reached into the back pocket of the old bum.

“Ewww,” he protested, “It’s sticky.”

“Find something!” 4MyMistress demanded, keeping his foot on the bum’s back.

“They’ve always got something.” Little buddy extracted 52 cents from the bum’s back pocket and stood up, jingling it in his palm. 4MyMistress thrust his chest out, clenched both fists to his hips, and in an exaggerated aping of a cartoon super hero, squeaked out John Candy-style, “Our work is done here! Time to move on, faithful sidekick.” He gave the beaten bum one final kick for good measure, then the two of them headed deeper down the alley.

More dumpsters. Garbage. Sh#t. A stray, mangy, mutt cowered, and slunk away to the side as they passed by, still too quick even in its emaciated state, it avoided the big kick that 4MyMistress had aimed at its head and went limping away out of the alley.

“Airball,” Little Buddy chuckled.

“Shut up,” said 4My. The two kept walking. They were nearly at the end now, when they happened upon another lump of blankets, this time in red and black flannel pattern, and quite obviously stained as well with oil or blood or some such disgusting thing. The lump was smaller than the first and halfway leaning up against the brick side of the building adjacent.

“Well, well, well,” said 4MyMistress. “What have we here?” He bent to remove the oily cover, but being a fat unlimber guy he had to spread his legs out wide in order to stoop that low. He grunted as his belly compressed against his Gumby-gold belt buckle, and pulled back the wretched blanket.

“A chick!” said his little buddy from behind. The both of them were quite surprised. “I didn’t know homeless guys could be a chick.”

“Just an old lady,” coughed 4MyMistress, standing himself up, still spread-legged before her. Then, lifting a fat sausage finger to his Oliver Hardy moustache, he scratched at his nose and thought a moment, then pointed down at her with the other fat hand.

“Man, look at all them wrinkles,” he tittered, and sucked in air. He was out of breath still from stooping. “You’re all jacked up, lady?”

The little guy grabbed 4MyMistress by the arm. “Come on, man. Leave her be. Let’s get outta here.”

“No deal,” huffed 4My.

“Let’s go do some crimes elsewhere.”

“Di’n’tcha hear me, I said No deal!” snarled the John Candy Dewey Oxberger high tenor of 4MyMistress once more. He was in his element…and loving it. “We’re gonna f### you up, lady.” He laughed. “We gonna see what kinda money you got, and we gonna take it.” He started stooping down, spread-legged, huffing and wheezing, pulled the blanket back all the way from her, this poor defenseless, decrepit creature. The two of them saw how her legs were pink and white blotches of scabs and eczema or some such sh#t. She wore pink, beat-to-hell bedroom slippers—at least they were supposed to have been pink—one of them with the bottom rubber flapping freely.

4MyMistress’ face was right up in front of the homeless lady’s blue-haired sour mug, her open gaping mouth, replete with scabs over both corners of lips, revealing holes and brown, jagged serrations where once their were teeth. There were teeth in their once, weren’t there? The poor woman’s eyes were mostly closed.

“Just doin’ our job, Ma’am,” boasted the still out-of-breath 4MyMistress.

“Careful she don’t breathe on you,” said his li'l buddy from behind.

“You hear me, lady? Huh?” 4MyMistress flicked her cheek with a fat middle finger once, twice, three times. “Hey, you awake in there?”

His little buddy saw it; 4MyMistress didn’t stand a chance. One of the scabby, skuzzy, parched and blotchy legs kicked upwards suddenly, brownish-pink bottom-flappy slipper hitting him dead center of his spread-legged gait. It made a sound like a kielbasa being dropped from a considerable height into a dry frying pan.

4MyMistress made no sound but clutched instantly at his privates, remaining stooped over for a moment as the old homeless lady’s eyes opened wide and she began to cackle directly into his stupefied, fat face, just inches away.

“Oh, dude—dude!” his little buddy exclaimed, “She’s breating all over ya’.”

4MyMistress collapsed head first into the dirt and sh#t and alley grease and fungus of the old woman’s blanket as she, after a bit of understandable struggle, managed to wriggle out and away from him and get to her feet, never once the whole while ceasing the unnerving and raspy cackling. “Hee-hee-hee! Hee-hee-hee! Hee-hee-hee!”

Little buddy backed away. He backed way away. The homeless lady bent down and, still cackling, probed all four pockets of the prone 4MyMistress man with gaunt, skeletal hands. She held up bills. She held up more bills, and began counting them. Little buddy just stood at a distance, then watched her cautiously as she counted out a wad of change she’d gotten from fatty over there. She put the money down her blouse—if you could call it a blouse. As she had no meat on her Little Buddy could only imagine what disgusting place the money and the change would end their descent within her …ahem…wardrobe.

At last she stopped cackling, pointed a skeleton finger at little buddy.

“C’mere,” she said. “You wanna be next? Thought you was gonna get me, didja?”

Little Buddy turned, then broke into a run, running headlong out of the alley and leaving his fat friend face down and at the mercy of this awful, junkyard-dog-of-a-homeless-lady.

She called after him, in a voice like a witch’s, “Not as long as you got the balls, you little whippersnappers! C’mere and bring ‘em to me. I’ll knock you down a few pegs. Little ball swingin’ bastards. All o’ you’s. I’ll take ‘em all on.” She picked up her bindly bundle, straining once to pull it out from under the fat sonuvagun she’d just knocked to the ground.

The fat sonuvagun was still too far into the la-la land of nauseating male pain to do a damn thing, but he could twist his head, crane his fat fact up to look at her. He saw she had his wallet. Shit. Oh, shit, he thought. She’s got Dad’s credit cards. She did indeed, splaying them out in her hand like playing cards.

“Now let’s see,” she said, kind of to herself, kind of to 4My, “Which one should I use first?” Then, pulling one out and away from the rest, she cackled again, saying, “Hey, I’ll tell y’what. I bet I can get to Macy’s first, before you can get up and get over to some kind of a phone to try and get these canceled.” She cackled and walked away with her bindle and her stash of greens and coins and plastic and wallet. “Shop till you drop, that’s what I always say!” More cackling. Damn that cackling. 4MyMistress could only grunt in her direction as she disappeared down the alley. His credit cards! Dad would kill him! For a moment he thought of his cell phone. Yeah, if he could remove either of his hands from cupping his groin, maybe he could call and cancel—no, never mind that one.4MyMistress saw the old bitch chatting somebody up on his cell phone as she rounded the adjacent building, out of the alley, and disappeared from view.

“Who the hell do homeless people call?” his mind thought. “Who gives a sh#t?—what about my balls?” his body answered. And then both mind and body were in agreement—let’s get our priorities straight. Balls first, everything else second.

“URRRGGGgggghhhhhheeeeee” he groaned, and just laid there, feeling a piece of glass from a Paleolithic broken bottle go into his arm. Shit, he thought. Hope I don’t need stitches. That’s right about where I want to get that Swastika tattoo put.