Monday, October 1, 2007

Mexican Floor Dance

By hughgee

So I was spending some time in Mexico at a language school and living with a Mexican family, right. Six weeks to be exact. Spent it with a very friendly Mexican family that obviously got part of their income from housing students such as me and the other guy who shared a room with me. It was a weird, far-out experience, for I'd never previously been to Mexico. The second strangest thing I encountered was the bugs: they were bigger, faster, and nastier than anything you'd find here in the States. But the strangest thing I encountered actually wasn't Mexican at all. It was this gal who came from my neck of the woods. Well, the same country at least. She came from Texas, a state I have only driven through before, typically as fast as possible. She had this little twang to her voice--you know the one--and she was in her first year of college, still 18, though she looked and acted quite a bit younger. Really flippin' cute; really flippin' bubbly; really flippin' annoying as get out.

During study sessions in the hot Mexican sun for these six weeks, in between classes, I'd drink Coronas that either myself or the other guy student had bought at the little liquor store on the walk back to the house--a hot, balmy, uphill hike--and I'd alternately do my homework and play soccer out on the walled-off, tiled roof of the house we stayed at with the little Mexican kid of about nine years old or so. As stated, I and this other guy had signed up for the same language program and were there six weeks, but a few students would come and go, having signed up with some other U.S. school for a shorter duration. So we saw a couple or other students come and go. But the 3rd week, this Texican gal showed up. At first I thought she was a lot younger than what she said she was, because she talked like it, acted like it, and looked like it. She was about 5'3" or so, had shoulder-length, semi-curly, sandy hair, medium build, and across her somewhat broad nose was this impish saddle of brown freckles. The "Alma" of the house (the wife of the guy who owned the house) was your typical, traditional Mexican matriarch, and thus had a strong protective sense about her. She soon made it clear to me and my roommate that, as we walked the same way and time to school as the little innocent-looking American girl, we were to walk with her and watch out for her, which we did. But let me tell you, it was a huge pain in the ass from the first moment. You see, this girl talked. And talked. And talked. And talked. She talked about anything. And, as it turned out, her Spanish was a bit more advanced than ours, so we couldn't understand half of what she said so she just talked, and sometimes we asked her to repeat herself, but soon we just shut up and let her talk and talk. Downhill to school, down and up the many hills of this Mexican town, we walked to and fro to school with her, listening and nodding as she talked about cracks in the sidewalk (which were many and gigantic) and stuff about her boyfriend back in Abilene or where-the-hell-ever. Boy could this girl blab. And she had a voice that sounded like a kid's. It was annoying, let me tell you. I mean, she was nice and all, and very smiley and whatnot--but annoying. A little too smiley, if you ask me.

So anyway, one day in between classes, after I'd finished my homework and had thrown back a couple of cheap Coronas, I started my usual routine of playing short-field soccer up on the roof with this Mexican kid. It was kind of a hoot. I'd have the kid try and defend this one section of the wall between two big potted plants that served as the goal, and I'd distract the kid, and then I'd kick the ball, score and goal, whereupon the kid would yell "Tramposo!" for all the neighborhood to hear. Cute kid. I soon found out the kid's favorite soccer team was "Las Pumas," so naturally, after asking around to find out who the natural arch-enemy team of Las Pumas was, I soon began calling myself "Las Chivas." It was a mini-blast.

But this Texan girl used to come up to the roof sometimes and try to talk the heads off me and my roommate when we were studying. It sucked. We couldn't get jack done when she came up. Well, this one day playing soccer, she came up when my roommate wasn't around. I was done playing, and the kid wasn't, so I sat back down and uncorked another Corona, and let this Texas girl have a go at roof soccer with the kid. I wasn't really watching. I mean I was and I wasn't. I was just glad this kid was here to distract the gossipy girl from talking my ear off. So I focuses on when the Mexican mosquitoes would be out (they'll eat you alive if you stay out after the blasting sun has gone down) and drank my beer. I thought about what we'd be learning in Spanish from our lazy instructor who never prepared for his classes in the afternoon. I thought about what the titanically-titted American student girl who sits directly opposite me would be wearing and if her hair would be all raggedy and wet and if that wetness, just a few drops of it, would soak onto her T-shirt like sometimes it did. It was a helluva time I had down there. Anyway, I looked back just in time to see it.


I heard it and looked. The girl was raising her arms in triumph. The Mexican kid stood in a kind of momentary shock. The Texan girl had scored a goal--and how.

The ball was still ricocheting around the roof, wall to wall, between several other potted plants. The gal had kicked the ball quite obviously harder than was necessary for such a half-spirited game of fun. It was completely out of place. Uncalled for. Could've hurt the poor kid. But the thing that struck me most was, unlike my goals I had scored on the kid, hers was much quicker and completely untelegraphed. She was setting the ball up, wearing these plastic flip-flops (I forget what color, it's been a couple years), and from her body lean and stance you'd expect her to get closer or approach the goal more, try to fake the kid out. No, instead, she faked the kid out by drawing her foot back ultra-quick and--WHAMO!--just like that. You'd never see it coming, maybe unless you were Ronaldhino or something (yeah, I learned about him down there...though I'd never heard of him before nor since.) It seemed a little cruel to the kid, really, but there it was.


Sitting there at that moment, I don't know, just out of curiosity or whatever, maybe to see if she perhaps had hurt her foot, I looked at her feet, the tops of her bare feet, and the one kicking foot was red, all right. But I also saw something which gave me pause. Her kicking foot. It was big. I mean, she didn't have big feet or anything, but her foot was like, well, I don't know, kind of swollen-looking on top. I looked again. I stared. The foot--her foot--well, how shall I say this?--it looked like a man's foot. It was distinctively bulgy on top and had striations like veins or whatever, and, so help me, I thought I saw veins poking out. Not pretty feet at all.

But I had to stop looking right that moment because she was through celebrating and was addressing me with some or another of her inane comments which I always managed to answer with, "Yeah, that's cool" or some such thing just to appease her and hope the conversation didn't drag out too long. I didn't want to hear about her boyfriend, her school, her blah, blah, blah trivialities. I opened my Spanish book and acted like I had more Spanish homework just to give her message (though as often as not, this didn't work for shit, she still kept on gabbing at you.)

Well, a couple days later, I'm out on this roof under the parasol, and again my roommate ain't there, and this time I'm really doing my Spanish homework, and this gal comes out and cracks open her book, and I don't know where the kid is this time, so it's not long before this gal starts up again, talking about me, blah-blah-blah. She always sounded so pleasant and happy, like life's so good to her and isn't this a great town and I can't wait to get back and see my boyfriend and blah, blah, blah. Happy, cheery, sugary-coated pleasant vapidness that I could really do without, I've got a helluva lot more under my belt about life I've got to think about so why don't you leave me alone, little girl? That kinda stuff.

But she starts up on me, talking about her days in elementary school, then junior high, back in Texas...and I wasn't really listening, so I have no idea how she made the transition, but anyway then she drops this bomb on me, "Yeah, boys at school were always scared of me, 'cause I took karate."

I perked up--something she may or not have noticed. Either way, I can't say, she would've kept on talking.

"They all thought I was a bully or something."

I gulped. I stared right at her. I said nothing.

Finally I ask, "Is that why your feet are so..."

She turns red, beams and blushes. "Are so what?"

Fumbling for words, I am. "I-I don't know...uh...bulgy, kind of."

"Bulgy?" she blurts out, leaning forward in her chair. "You think my feet are BULGY?"

"Yeah, I don't know. Kinda..."

She sits back, becoming introspective for the first ever time I've seen her, peering down at her feet, then bringing her short straight leg, flip-flop and all, straight up to the level of her chin and making her foot go flat and back while she wiggles her toes in examination of it. It's like she's doing it for the first time, and I'm thinking, 'With those things?'--unbelievable.

She puts her foot back down, twiddles the flippy hair at the end. "Eh, yeah, I guess so. I used to kick a lot at the bag thing, so I guess." She shrugs. "I don't know."

"The bag thing?"

"Yeah, that bag thing, you know. The whatchamacallit. They got it hanging down at the gym, and you go Uhh--Uhh."

I froze to my seat as she flicked her bulbous foot above the table a couple times with the "Uhh--Uhh's."

Speechless. A frozen doorknob. That's me.

Then the conversation--her conversation--drifted and blathered off into some other topic of which I was wholly uninterested, as was the norm.

A few moments of this and I sank my face back into my book.

Then came the day my roommate and I were walking this gal back from school, being careful to watch over her and make sure nothing happened to her as per the instructions of our house Alma, when, upon turning up our street where we were staying, one of the hole-in-the-wall iron doorways that comprise the street front was opened up, and an ugly painted sign could be plainly seen inside, "Chicas Vividas Desnudas." A seedy strip joint. There was this Mexican guy in the doorway, a real greasy looking bloke, toothpick in mouth, and he was motioning for us to come in. Here we are - sweaty, tired, hot, hauling heavy backpacks up this hill and this guy's offering us a respite from the sun. Well, I'm not a guy who frequents such places, and apparently neither was my roommate, so we started walking past him. That was when he stepped in front of this little gal, blocking her path on the cracked-to-shit Mexican sidewalk. Well I was thinking, What to do now, and I guess I'm gonna have to do something, and I'm sure my roommate was too; this guy was saying something in Mexican I couldn't understand, and saying it very insistently, motioning his arms for the girl to come in.


And there the guy was, laid out on the sidewalk, this little gal having administered a devastating knee to his nuts. I looked at David (my roommate); his eyes were wide and his eyebrows were up near his receding hairline. Neither of us could believe it.

This little gal, she just gives this peevish look and shakes her head side to side, readjusts her backpack and steps around him, walking past David and me.

She said nothing (for a change!). Evidently it was no big deal to her. But I was a bit slow to turn and catch up. I kept looking at this guy. Upon hitting the ground, belly first, he'd immediately begun curling up so that his blue-jeaned posterior was sticking straight up to the sky. His head was awkwardly sticking over at a 90 degree angle as both shoulders were pinned in obvious, agonizing pain the sidewalk, along with his curled up knees. I turned and walked and started catching up, but turned around once to see this guy slowly listing over, then finally collapsing on his side, still all curled up as f###. The thing is, this guy was obnoxious. How do you say obnoxious in Spanish? I forget, but he was. But still, maybe he posed a threat, maybe he didn't. Alls I know is, when I saw her knee him, the ferocity of the blow was such that, he could've been the Nightstalker maybe, I don't know, and I still would've felt it was out of place. I mean she wrecked the guy. What could've called for that? What'd he say? Shit, I don't know. But I found myself siding with this guy all of a sudden. I don't know, again, I don't know. Maybe it's a guy thing. Maybe it's a thing you too feel, if you gotta carry around testicles your whole life. Ouch.

Nothing was mentioned of it. Not during dinner. Not the next morning. David had mentioned it later that night, saying something like, "Did you see that shit? Damn!" But the little gal, she never did bring it back up.

Then came the night, a couple days later, when we were out at a nightclub which was down the street from our school. I wasn't dancing. Hell, I was drinking. So was David. We of course were supposed to "chaperoning" our little chargee, but one Corona lead to another, and we kind of lost track of her. A couple hours went by, I don't know. Then, we heard this commotion out on the dance floor. The banda musica didn't stop or anything, but people started clearing away. A big empty hole appeared on the dance floor. Through beer-goggle eyes I saw, so help me, some brown-skinned, rico-suave-type guy down on the ground, face lost in misery, hands clutching at his nuts. And here comes this little gal.

"Shit!" I hear, a slurred emanation coming over my shoulder from David.

The gal pulls up a barstool next to me.

"What happened?" I ask.

She looked back over her shoulder. The guy was still down. She shrugged then sighed, saying, "Eh, he touched me where he wasn't supposed to. I warned him."

Then, both of us still looking, she laughed and tossed her hair back and said,

"Guys never learn."

I took a deep drag off my fifth or sixth Corona; I seemed to need it right then.

The next day, out on the roof, she came out while I was studying again. David was off downing Coronas. The guy was a souse.

Blah, blah, blah, she starts in on me. Her boyfriend, her hometown, this is such a great experience, blah, blah, blah.

I get the gumption. "You know, does your boyfriend know you can kick his ass probably?"

She stopped. Silence. Except for the one-man-band asshole up the street who managed to play trombone and snare drum simultaneously, blaring it into innocent people's driveways until they gave him a peso to go away down below. A momentary triumph, at least.

She appeared flummoxed. For a moment anyway. I could tell she was thinking.

Finally, a bare-shouldered shrug, then, "Eh, probley," she said, then gave a half-sincere giggle.

Like you could give a shit. You're half my size and kick guy's asses for fun, must be nice. I went back to my book. She kept on blabbing. What the hell's a guy supposed to say to a thing like that?

Then there's the kicker. It's late at night. Everybody's asleep. Siesta time en la noche. Downstairs, we hear gabbing. It's whispered gabbing, but it's that same old empty-headed, airheaded gabbing that's been our nemesis these 3 weeks. Now we know, David and I and anybody else who's staying there, that it's strictly against the rules to use the house phone to call home. This poor Mexican family simply can't afford it. That's why we spend so much time at the Internet cafe on the way back from school sometimes, checking in the our family and friends back home via email. But this gal's doing it all right. Downstairs. She's up using the phone. Both David and I sit up in our beds.

"This is bullshit," David says. He had talked to her about it when he saw her try to sneak a call during the daytime one time, only he'd been sitting behind the safety of the dinner table and had had other Mexican witnesses present at the time.

I know what he means though. After all the kindness this Mexican family has bestowed upon us, stuffing us with food at every meal, making "Cuba Libres" between classes so we can go back with a tequila buzz to our afternoon classes, it's bullshit indeed to take advantage of that kindness by running up their phone bill. He said it, but David's got that wide-eyed, scared look I'd seen about him before. I get it. You don't want to go down there anymore than I do. I know, I know. I know exactly what you're thinking, David-man, you old hijo de puta. You're scared shitless, same as me, of going down there and telling that gal to get the hell off the phone, why're you doing this, you know they can't afford it, etc, etc. You're scared of a kick in the balls in the dark, same as me.

I shake my head. "Well, shit," I say.

David takes a deep breath. Then, reaching over on his nightstand, he reaches back, and he's got a Mexican 50 centavo piece.

"Heads you go, tails I go," the bastard says.

"'kay," I answer, hesitantly.

He flips. It's heads.

"Shit," I hear myself whisper.

"You're up, sport," he says, barely capable of containing his relief.

I throw the thin, nearly useless Mexican blankets off, stand up, put some shorts on. Shaking my head as I carefully exit the room in the dark, I mutter,

"Here goes nothin'."

"Psssst," I hear behind me. I turn around. Ooof. Catch the pillow David's thrown my way in the dark.

"Here, cover your nuts with that," he says.

"Thanks," I say. "Thanks a lot."

Out in the hallway, my hands fumbling along the wall, I hear him laughing. The sonuvabitch is laughing. Bastard.

Well I make it downstairs without falling, except for a couple times, feel my way to the kitchen where the phone is, where the whispering is--the whispering stopped. It's dark. I can't see shit. I've got the pillow, clutching it tightly up against my pelvis, so I only got one good arm to feel my way with, and I can't see shit.

"Lisa," I whisper. That was her name, now that I'm writing this, I'm remembering. "Lisa."

I'm in the kitchen. I think this is the kitchen.


I suddenly knew the taste of Mexican linoleum, only to find that my body wasn't going to stay in that flat position for long. Oh no, it was curling up on me. My abdomen muscles were on max-flex--involuntary max-flex--and they were arching me up, arching my ass in the air and I suddenly felt it extremely inconvenient to have a neck and head. My elbows locked shut and my hands were up into my balls, clutching, holding, shielding in vain--in vain because it was too damn late--and what was propping me up on the cold linoleum floor were the four points of my shoulders and knees, my head splayed out painfully and awkwardly to the side and I saw foot, I saw feet. I see the shape of feet. I see girl's feet that look like guy's feet, all callused and shit, except they're the size of girl's feet. I could make out that much in the dark.

The pain is astounding. The pain is unreal. It's all-encompassing and it's what's causing me to arch my butt in the air, as though that might help it, but since it doesn't, why can't I stop.

I feel a pat on my rear, a couple more pats on my protruding rear end.

"Oops," comes the puckish whisper. "Thought you were an intruder."

No she didn't. She knew it was me. She's pissed. She knew we were on her about getting off the phone, this was her payback.

"Oops," she says insincerely. Total sarcasm. Angry as hell at me, but you'd never know it. Little bitch, everything's easy for you. Always so nice, too. The way you talk, back home, down home picnics and shit, everything hunky dory for you and you all. Even the way you drop guys.


Damn, that pillow didn't do jack for me. Roll over on my side, still clutching and grasping, gasping, and so yeah that's all I'm thinking about now. Damn skinny Mexican pillows. Not worth a shit, now, are you.

Men at Attention, Women at Ease Part Two (revised)

By hughgee

It looked and sounded like a big black UPS van screeching to a halt outside the perimeter of squad cars all gathered ‘round the Ebor City First National Bank, but was instead S.W.A.T., that city’s finest of the finest.

The rear door slid open with purpose and haste, out jumped seven black-suited, body-armored S.W.A.T. troopers, scoping the perimeter, weapons drawn, securing the grounds around them.

“Hut-hut, hut-hut, hut-hut, hut-hut,” every one of them jabbered, in syncopated follow-the-leader unison. Every last man of them was slender and lithe, but then the beat cops and the ranking detective on scene couldn’t help noticing they were a little too slim, a little too hippy, most of the hair too long and flowing, one of them way too busty—these seven were in fact women. All of them.

“What the hell?” murmured one uniformed officer who, like the others, was crouched behind his squad car.

“They’re all chicks!” exclaimed another in bewilderment, from behind the protection of his open driver’s side squad car door.

Some 30 feet away from the flashing red and blue lights of the encircling squad cars, the last one out the back of the van left with the more measured, commanding gait of an obvious leader of men—or women, as the case appeared to be. She strode up and down the perimeter set up by her “hutting” serious subordinates, surveying the scene. A miniature Sophia Loren, sultry, with shorn locks and bulging thighs, she had the prominent Italian-ish hook nose and prominent cheek bones, and incisive, inquisitive eyes which squinted in the afternoon Ebor City sun. But her obvious rank and demeanor contrasted sharply with her physiognomy—she was easily the smallest of the eight head-swiveling, gun-toting women, standing five feet if she was lucky. She couldn’t have tipped the scales much beyond a hundred and ten pounds without body armor, and most of that probably from her noticeably muscular legs and slightly protuberant breasts.

“Nice ass,” said one mustachioed, cowering police officer.

“What ass—it’s all legs,” commented his partner from the other side of their parked black and white.


Gun shots from inside the bank; cops crouching, cringing, clinging tightly to their firearms, holding them close to their bodies and muttering desperate expletives to themselves. The small, full-lipped S.W.A.T. commander stood straight, unflinching, flanked by the other members of her imposing but unmistakably feminine squad.

“Over here! S.W.A.T.! Over here and get down!” urged the plain clothes detective in the trench coat behind the unmarked Oldsmobile.

“Relax, detective,” the small S.W.A.T. commander hailed, and then she too crouched and nimbly ambled over, sandy bob-cut bouncing, stopped behind the red Olds and attempted to get the low down from the unnerved detective, who struggled not to stutter as he informed her of the situation.

“G-g-got four ass-assailants, maybe five. Botched bank job. Hostages—15, maybe 20. C-c-clerks and c-c-customers alike. G-g-g--”


More shots rang out from the bank.

The detective winced and let the full weight of one shoulder collapse against the beige, velour inside driver’s side door of the Olds. He felt himself suddenly pushed, and--“Pull yourself together!” S.W.A.T. commander Littiani demanded, crouching over him, grabbing the oversized lapels of the detective’s trench coat in her tiny, hard-knuckled fists as he slid onto his back on the pavement behind the car door. Her intensely-tendoned wrists hadn’t the strength to shake him rag-doll style as she would’ve liked, but she did her authoritative best, grabbing and pulling, straddling him, size 5 black boots acting like bookends, pinned to his hips. “Weapons—what about weapons?! What’re we dealing with?!”

“Oh, man—they’re really loaded down. Couple of AKs, p-p-plenty of other smaller caliber. Shit, they got a gatlin gun in there—I don’t know! Really got us pinned down.”

“Shit,” muttered commander Littiani, glancing over her shoulder at one of her girls.


“What?! Don’t you guys know what to do?” yelled the detective, nearly hysterical.

“Shut up,” said Littiani disdainfully.

“You’ll never get me, copper!” came the hackneyed cry from inside the bank. Then, “Ha-ha! I always wanted to say that, you bastards!”

But Littiani was still distractedly eyeballing the same shapely S.W.A.T. trooper to her rear. The blond with breasts unmistakably too large for her frame had a hand fumbling and self-groping her chest underneath the black body armor.

“Miller!” snapped Littiani in piercing alto. ‘You got an itch, sergeant?!”

“My tit—fell—out,” she answered apologetically, standing, bending, hopping.

Looked like a buxom diver adjusting her bikini underneath a wetsuit.

“Get your sweet ass down and mind that perimeter!” yelled her commander. “Get it down or I’ll pop you a new asshole in your forehead. You won’t have to worry about those assholes in there.”

“Yes, commander,” said the busty S.W.A.T. sergeant, sheepish and red-faced, though more from the groping and stooping than from the commander’s reproval. Whispering the word “Bitch” to herself, she shut one eye and fixed the other back inside the gun site.


“Shit!” shrieked the prone and detective in a high and terrified falsetto. His eyes blazed frantic and desperate, looking up at Littiani, still straddling over him in her own protective crouch. “I call for S.W.A.T. back-up; they send me a bunch of broads.”

“Candy-ass!” the S.W.A.T. commander exclaimed, and unceremoniously drove a diminutive and bony fist into his groin, eliciting a muffled “Ooof!” from the prostrate detective, putting an end to his hysterics and rendering him completely quiet.

“There. That’ll give you something else to worry about.” She left the detective on his back, wide-eyed and mute, rolling over on one side into a fetal position, both hands cupping his stricken groin. Athletically ambling away, carefully ducking, she began to confer with the other members of her squad.

“Well, what d’you make of it, Harrison?” she asked of a long-haired red head with beautiful Nicole-Kidman-ivory skin which contrasted sharply with the black armor body suit and the black of her level M-16.

“You know what I think.”

The two shared a serious and knowing look.

“Little Miss Man-Stopper?” asked the commander.

“You know it,” answered Harrison.

“Miller!” yelled the commander.

“Bring up the bitch from hell!”

“Got it,” said Miller.

Female S.W.A.T. members looked at each other encouragingly.

“Now you’re talking!” one of them in the ranks let out.

Others murmured approval. They relished this. Things were about to get interesting. Sergeant Miller, bosom jostling, bounded behind the S.W.A.T. van and retrieved an ordinary looking black suitcase, bringing it up crouching to the little commander, but now escorted by the stiffly-crouching driver of the S.W.A.T. van, a strapping, grizzled-haired man of about 40. The four of them, Littiani, the breasty long-haired Miller, Harrison the ivory-toned red head, and the newly arrived male S.W.A.T. member all crouched behind a squad car on the outskirts of the perimeter.

“Lt. Hanley, what are you doing here?” asked Littiani, taking the briefcase from the blond sergeant.

“United States Cavalry, at your service.” He had a deep, raspy baritone.

“Lt., this is our fight.”

“I’m still S.W.A.T., commander,” said the burly Hanley. His voice may have been the result of cigars and whisky, but his body was the result of weight-lifting, beef, and strange. “I’m in this too, ‘least till the Fat Lady sings.”

He was referring to the fact that he was retiring soon—within the month, in fact. He was also referring to the fact that male S.W.A.T. officers were, for no apparent reason, somewhat of a dying breed. All the young recruits seemed to be female. Academy policy. Mind-boggling. Ridiculous. Oh well, what could you do? No accounting for bureaucracies. At least he was almost out. He’d have a pension, go fishing on week days, maybe do a bit of traveling.

But until this month was up he was still S.W.A.T. No denying that. Still, it bothered him all to hell, the past year or so, this taking orders from women ten years his junior and all that crap. What the hell was happening to S.W.A.T., anyway?

“Hanley, get out of here. Your job is to drive, that’s all.” Littiani was matter-of-fact in her rejection of his offer to help. He was determined to go out with a bang, do something a tad bit heroic to close out what was, in fact, a darn near illustrious career. “Little lady, I got more experience in my left nut than you’ll ever have for another decade or so on the force. Gimme a break, huh? Now tell me where you want me.”

“I want your ass in that van, Lt.”

“What’s your problem, anyway?” he demanded.

“Law enforcement doesn’t need you anymore,” said Littiani distractedly. She was opening the suitcase and extracting a black box, the approximate size and dimensions of which resembled a VCR, but with a lens-like extension piece where you’d otherwise put the movie in. She lifted it out and seemed to stroke it a little too admiringly. “You’re a dinosaur, Hanley,” she finished.

“Set it up,” said Miller.

“Yeah, let’s get this thing over with,” added Harrison.

“What is that?” asked Hanley.

POW! POW! Came more shots from the bank.

Littiani was busy setting the device atop the hood of the squad car, attentive to point the “nozzle” or whatever lens that is towards the bank itself. She was turning dials on the back of it, flipping a couple of switches. “Your worst nightmare,” she said, in feminine desultory monotone.

From the bank window where the shots had been fired came a muffled moan of a male voice, “Ohhhhh….Ohhhh…”

“Okay, it’s on. We’re go!” shouted Littiani, standing up. All S.W.A.T. members did the same, but when Hanley did it, Littiani turned on him.

“What’re you doing?! Get down!”

“What the hell’s your problem?” asked Hanley, greatly angered now.

Littiani had no time for this. Whirling, she yelled over to the police around the perimeter that her S.W.A.T. girls were going in.

“Not without me, you ain’t,” insisted the stubborn Hanley, jaw protruding, jaw muscles clenched, gritting a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth.

With a wave of her arm, one of the brunettes, a S.W.A.T. trooper surnamed Maccato came forward, took over manning the machine, while the rest of Littiani’s team took off towards the bank, dodging and weaving in and out of cars and trees and bank drop-off boxes, snapping out staccato cadences.

“Hut-hut, hut-hut, hut-hut, hut-hut,”

Littiani lingered a moment longer, impatiently extracting something else from the open suitcase on the pavement at her feet. Hanley noticed for the first time the outside of the suitcase had embossed upon it, in stencil-font gold letters, the words “ANaLWiMP DISGROINIFICATOR, U.S. B.A.T.F.”

It was heavy, apparently quite heavy, though not nearly so large as the VCR looking thing. At any rate, it was heavy enough to require her setting her M-16 down, then lifting it out of the box with both hands. “All right,” she said, standing, handing it over to Hanley. “Here. Wear this.”

Hanley reached out a big hand and the thing Littiani dropped into it nearly took his arm off. It was a good thing he hadn’t collected his weapon yet, for his arm dipped two feet before he caught the thing using both hands and brought it back up with some effort. The thing was black and concave shaped, like a pharmacist’s mortar and pestle without the pestle and just as thick, but with extended flat and straight out on one side for a couple of inches.

“What the hell’s this?” he said.

“A lead cup. If you’re going in there,”—Littiani pointed into the bank—“you’re going to need it.”

“What?” he said, derisively but completely at a loss to her meaning.

“Shove that thing in your pants,” she insisted. “It came with the model, part of the weapons system, in the case of retrieval of a male VIP hostage.”

Littiani looked over to the bank. “But I don’t suppose the president’s in there.”

Hanley held the thing out in front of him two-fisted like a shot putter at rest. “Commander Littiani, I must confess, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Littiani, nostrils flaring with impatience, gestured toward the disgroinificator. “I’ll keep it simple. That thing blows out sounds waves that make a guy feel like he got kicked in the balls. It doesn’t affect women. The sound waves can’t penetrate lead. That’s the only thing. So get it on or get in the van and get the hell outta the way.”

Hanley was speechless. He stood there, amazed and annoyed, watching Littiani take off towards the bank, taking the same hide and seek route as her other S.W.A.T. members a moment ago.

Hanley dropped the ridiculously bulky lead cup on the asphalt and followed her, but as soon as he rounded the squad car he dropped down to his knees. He had wandered into the beam of the disgroinificator and had actually blanked out for a split second, and now he found himself having succumbed to a great surprise and vaguely nauseating abdominal discomfort, and he was on his knees, both hands clutching his ringing testicles, gasping for his next breath.

Hanley was panting for breath. “Hey,” he grunted feebly to the disappearing Littiani. “I don’t hear nuthin’.”

She heard him but didn’t turn around, only deigning to shout out her answer and then disappear completely through a window of the bank previously broken by bullets: “Inaudible,” she said. “Think dog whistles.”

Hanley, after a few seconds of doing nothing but catching his breath and waiting for the pain to abate, finally crawled away, back around the back of the squad car. Reaching down with both hands, then stopping to loosen his fly, then resuming lifting the lead cup with both hands, he clumsily shoved the cup down into his underwear. But here another mishap occurred as, once the cup got past the elastic of his underwear, into the loose-knit pocket which held his package, he made the mistake of letting go a second too quickly and the lead cup dropped about an inch and a half, pinching one testicle between the cup and his thigh. At this he emitted an “Ooof” and fell to his elbows, then curled up into a fetal position, the next 30 seconds of his life and career being totally taken from him, absorbed as he was with a temporary but single-minded devotion of the status of his once more buffeted balls.

Inside the bank, things couldn’t be going any easier, any more routine for the female S.W.A.T. team. Five male assailants, all wearing rubber Richard Nixon masks—the vulgar Nixon masks that morph into a dick and balls at the ends of the bulbous nose and jowly hanging cheeks—were down and out, gone fetal, moaning and groaning to be taken in, to be taken to jail, to be taken anywhere away from the pain. Commander Littiani and her women took their time about it but were happy to oblige them, but first, they took care to escort all the female hostages out of the bank.

The operation wasn’t totally “clean”, however. Usage of the disgroinificator rarely was: the female hostages, of varying ages, arm in arm with the female S.W.A.T. members, were very concerned about husbands and boyfriends and grandfathers—fellow hostages but who were, like the male culprits of the whole mess, plastered to the ground in moaning, agonizing, gut-wrenching pain.

“Please—please—help him! Help my husband! Something’s wrong,” said one woman hostage.

“We’ll take care of him,” the busty sergeant Miller said, sympathetically.

“He’s all right.”

“What’s happening? What’s wrong with my dad?” one little girl said.

“He’s okay. He’s gonna be okay,” sergeant Harrison assured her, leading her out of the bank into safety.

When all the female hostages were out of the bank, the disgroinificator still doing it’s gut-wrenching, scrotum-invading, pulsating, throbbing-nerved, nauseating worst, Littiani and the others turned to handcuff the fetal assailants, then to signal for trooper Maccato to turn off the disgroinificator to end the crippling discomfiture of the poor fallen male hostages. It was dirty work, it was unfortunate work, Littiani thought, but it had to be done in this order, if you didn’t want anything to go wrong.

As Littiani herself, M-16 strapped behind her, straddled one behemoth of a bank robber, removed his dick and balls mask, then struggling to force his weakened, nut-clutching limbs behind his back in order to hand cuff him, she heard a shout. A baritone shout--she had never heard before within the destructive, invisible beam such a shout of firmness from the male voice.

Wheeling around, she saw the big Hanley, strutting toward her, slowly and awkwardly, wide-legged like a cowboy with saddle sores, doubtless in accommodation of the massive, cumbersome, 10-pound cup of lead in his shorts, sheltering his manly privates.

“I don’t know what the hell this is all about,” Hanley bellowed when he finally lumbered up close to Littiani, stepping over the body of one fetal fallen male after another, “but if you think you’re gonna take all the credit for nabbing these guys, you got another thing coming. I’m retiring next month. Cut me some slack. Lemme go out on top, eh little Miss Litt?”

Littiani waited for him, waited until he was right up next to her, right up until he could look right down at her, towering over her, grinning and confident.

“Hey! Don’t you leave when I’m talking to you, missy.” Hanley glared, pointed, then relented with the finger in her face and just grinned and winked. “You got that, honey pie?”

“Oh, brother,” Littiani said, not even angry, just bored and out of patience, her pretty hand acting on its own, taking advantage of his added height which made it that much more difficult to see what she was doing down there. By the time he felt it, it was too late: fumbling for a second at his greatly distended crotch, lodging her fingernails just behind the cup, all she had to do was lift. Just an inch, but that’s all it took. Hanley felt his nuts fall out of the cup, like eggs falling off a kitchen cabinet in slow motion, and the slow smashing of the sexually-biased sound waves seeped in osmosis-style through the thin skin of his scrotum, a rising wave of nausea welling up into his diaphragm, rising, rising, crushing, crushing.


“What’s the matter, Lt.?” the little commander asked calmly. “Hm?”

Hanley stood rigid, chin to the ceiling, quivering, then convulsing, looking as though a stick had suddenly been shoved up his rectum.


Littiani, hands on hips, relishing the moment, teased the big man mercilessly.

“Awww, what’s-a-matter, macho man—cat got your balls?”


“Oh,” she parroted, in mock sympathy.

Hanley saw floor, he saw boots, he saw size 5 black boots.

And then one of the boots disappeared and then he felt it planted on the top of his exposed hip as he lay on his side in a fetal position.

Littiani pushed a few times, playfully toying with him, then said, in a child-like voice he’d never heard from the brassy little hard-assed babe: “Weaker sex.”

He heard the other girls of the S.W.A.T. team laugh. And there was nothing he could do. Except retire. He was, after all, a dinosaur; or perhaps, with this aching pouch, an endangered marsupial.

Men at Attention, Women at Ease

By hughgee

She was a tough woman. She was a very tough woman. But that wasn’t why Commander Stryker held back from the squat, rolly-polly Sgt. Davies who came to retrieve him to the lab. Reason was, he knew what this possibly meant. He had asked not to be disturbed in his quarters not twenty minutes ago. But the message the brassy, pug-nosed, feminine bowling ball brought with her was urgent—and it was from Dr. Moriarty herself.

He knew what Moriarty had been working on. It was a long-shot, it could never really work, but for this message to be so labeled, well, he knew Moriarty was not the excitable type. Far from it: she’d rebuffed his sexual advances several times over the course of their year of working together as coolly, as clinically, as if she was viewing a specimen of amoeba under a microscope whenever he’d pressed himself close and she’d been forced to stop her work and reluctantly look up at him. She was a beautiful cold fish, he’d told himself, whom the army had pulled out of some hole in the ice and handed the position of head scientist over the Advance in Non-Lethal Weapons in the Hands of Military Police program—ANaLWiMP, for short.

The ANaLWiMP program had been studying a theory of the effects of certain low-frequency sound waves on the human body. In a year’s time the program had accomplished nothing, nothing to justify its enormous defense expenditures. Everyone from Moriarty to Commander Stryker on down knew the budget was running out. Pretty soon they’d be back to more realistic means of stopping criminals—refinement of the tried and true night stick, softer, less deadly rubber bullets, a more glutinous quick-drying foam to spray on criminals to stop them in their tracks. But this note meant something, or else Moriarty would never have sent for the Commander in the middle of lunch and attached such urgency. Or else maybe she’d finally had enough and swooned for his machismo style. Yes, maybe. A definite maybe.

Sgt. Davies led the way through the swinging doors like a nurse pushing a gurney. Stryker followed close at her heels. He was a middle age bachelor, a playboy. Never could he get the notion of a next conquest out of his mind. This was why he watched even the Sergeant’s jostling rump along the way. He squinted, grinded his teeth, as he saw the two giant hindquarters bump and grind up and down as Davies’ ultra-wide hips swayed side to side like a covered, camouflaged, life-sized Liberty Bell being rung again and again. He was the Alpha male, he thought. He’d have a piece of this Omega tail. Someday, someday, he thought. Piss on Anita Hill, if they were going to be in the army, he had a right to such ogling. He walked, he watched. Damn blubber butt, mused the Commander. Still, he knew it wasn’t all blubber. That thing was part solid, almost equestrian. A middle-aged woodie made for an increasingly stiff-legged gait.

“Doctor, here is the Commander,” Sgt. Davies said at last, and Commander Stryker awoke from his lustful reverie surprised to suddenly be in the presence of the bespectacled, bob-cutted, high-cheeked intellectual Moriarty who’d been so resistant to his home run moves for so long. Still, something about Moriarty made him shrivel up in her presence and this was what he felt happening now underneath his pants suit.

“Commander, I’ve got something for you to see,” the Doctor began.

“This had better be good, baby doll” retorted Stryker, archly setting down his hat and acting more put out than he really was. He loved demeaning female subordinates and he particularly loved talking this way to Moriarty. He was the Alpha Male at Camp Reynholt.

Moriarty continued in her typically clipped and clinical fashion. “We’ve come up with a few sound waves in the negative 10.09 to the negative 11.07 range frequency that seems to have a certain effect on a certain part of the body.”

“Well, what have you got, sister?” he demanded, crossing his arms in an air of exaggerated disbelief. He was really upset she hadn’t gone out with him, hadn’t said Yes to him for one lousy date this whole year. She must be, he thought. She’s a lesbian. How else could she have resisted him this long?

She laid her hand on a square box contraption on the table in front of her, one end raised up by a couple of small, makeshift wooden blocks the size of two new pads of Post-Its. The thing was gun metal gray with slits or what might be air vents cut in the sides. The apparatus had a small, black, round lens-like extension and looked for all the world like a routine classroom slide-projector.

“I’m calling it a disgroinificator,” she quipped, a trill of irony to her voice. She wasn’t capable of irony, thought Stryker. He’d thought Moriarty incapable of the most mundane of human emotions. An hour-glassed cyborg with puffy, sleepy-looking, garnet-stone lips.

“Disgronificator?” he corrected, or thought he was correcting. Sgt. Davies, standing straight off to the side with all her squat bulk, let out a huff of sarcastic amusement. Stryker was just about to call Davies on this act of inappropriate temerity—it would give him a chance to talk to a female the way he liked to talk to a female, the way he knew, or thought he knew, they liked to be talked to, when—

“No,” Moriarty shot back. “It’s a disgroinificator. Are you watching?” She motioned to the pane of glass housing the experimental sound studio. It was a two-way mirror, four feet high, eight feet wide. Behind it one could see the sound studio, vaguely dark inside, the size of a walk-in closet. Stryker could well make out the shape of a well-built, khakied young man standing out, at ramrod attention, hands at his sides.

“Who’s he?”

“Cadet Matthews. Volunteer,” the Doctor answered distractedly. She was carefully fingering what looked like a dial at the back of the contraption. Then, pressing what looked like a button of some sort, and throwing a glance over at Sgt. Davies, Dr. Moriarty added, “Power up.” It bothered Stryker, that look she gave Davies. It was a knowing look, like the two were in on some secret. He’d question her about it later; maybe even excoriate her, if everything went his way. Subordinates keeping secrets from him? Not in his army.

“You will notice Cadet Matthews beginning to show a minor hint of discomfort,” the Doctor stoically narrated. Peering through the two-way mirror, Stryker duly noted this. A slight grimace had begun to form on the young cadet’s countenance and his stiff stance had begun to quiver perceptibly. Stryker noticed the round lens-like extension of the apparatus was pointed toward the withering cadet.

“It has a range of 50 kilometers,” continued Dr. Moriarty, methodically, “a horizontal span of yet unmeasured proportions. This of course depends on the distance and the focus of the beam.”

The Commander looked nonplussed.

“Sound waves,” she said, busy adjusting something on the machine.

Stryker was running out of patience. He never had a lot of it around women who weren’t putting out. “Uh, am I missing something here, Doctor? What’s supposed to be happening?”

The Doctor and Sgt. Davies exchanged glances once more, much to the annoyance of the Commander. Turning back to her invention, the Doctor continued. “I have the Disgroinificator set to minimum volume at the moment. I will now increase the volume. Please observe the reactions of the cadet.”

She reached and with a sparkle of decorated pink acrylic nails adjusted a knob behind the contraption. Stryker was just about to mutter the words “I still don’t hear anything, Doctor” when he was stopped short by an agonized groan from behind the pane of glass. Turning to look, the Commander saw Cadet Matthews bending over, knees knocking together, as though he had just received a sound kick to the groin.

“Oh-HO-oh-HO-oh-HO-ohhhhhh,” the man groaned towards the ground. A moment later he was down.

“He’s away from the beam,” said Doctor Moriarty. “He should begin to recover in the normal amount of time. Sgt. Davies, would you be so kind as to tend to the cadet’s discomfort?”

With a chuckle that further annoyed Stryker, the Sergeant. exited the room.

“Low frequency sound waves, Commander,” Moriarty began clinically explaining.

“Inaudible to the human ear. Experimentation has shown that certain nerve endings of the anatomy are quite susceptible to these sound waves when broadcast within a certain spectrum of the known sound continuum.”

“You wanna gimme that in plain English, Doc?” demanded Stryker.

“We can stop an assailant or enemy combatant dead in his tracks without resorting to lethal force, and much more effective than any non-lethal devices yet devised.”

Commander Stryker took a gander in the other room and saw Sgt. Davies helping Cadet Matthews to his feet. The young man was drooping at all angles and were it not for the robustness of the female Sergeant; he’d have dropped back down to a fetal position. He saw Davies lead the cadet gingerly out of the room, one arm draped over her shoulder, his other hand cupping his groin. Stryker turned back to the Doctor, brightening suddenly.

“This is fantastic!” he beamed. “You mean to tell me if the G-men had this sucker, they wouldn’t’ve had to fill Bonnie and Clyde’s car full of holes?”

“Well,” began Dr. Moriarty, raising her eyebrows at this. “They still would’ve had to shoot Bonnie.”


“The pubic ventricle nerve has so far been the only nerve ending shown to be sensitive enough to be effected. The male is the only one who possesses the pubic ventricle nerve.”

It was now an astonished, rather than curious, “What?” which burst forth from Commander Stryker’s fallen mouth.

“It would seem the other nerve endings in the body sensitive enough to be deleteriously effected by the disgroinificator’s emission are sufficiently protected by sebaceous layers—by fat.” The Doctor paused to see the effect her words were having on the stunned Commander before continuing. “It would seem the scrotal sacrum is not sufficient insulation against invasive sound of this frequency. It’s the only place on the human anatomy where a nerve of such gross sensitivity is so exposed. Hence, it is only the male which finds the beam of the disgroinificator debilitating--hence the name. Fortunately, as I'm sure you are aware; males commit the vast majority of crimes and such other things which would give cause to use such a device.”

The lantern jaw of the Commander fell down around his Adam’s apple as he fumbled for his words. His eyes shown more whitely, revealing a state of mute dumbfoundedness.

“Men hang out,” quipped Moriarty, dryly. “They’re naughty bits dangle, and naughty bits are sensitive.”

“Sonuvabitch,” the Commander finally answered. “Sonuvabitch. I don’t believe it!”

Moriarty shrugged her shoulders, looking down, more interested in her invention than with Stryker’s protest.

Stryker took two steps toward the machine and was about to reach out to examine it more closely.

“Careful, Commander,” cautioned the Doctor. “It’s still in the experimental stage. The controls are sensitive. Though not as sensitive as some things…”

Stryker noted with raging effrontery the Doctor’s eyes were focused clearly on his groin when she added this final comment.

“Bullshit!” he roared. “Bullshit!” He paced around the lab a few steps, reddening, putting his hands angrily at his hips.

Impatient, but seeing she had to demonstrate further before her ignorant, chauvinistic Commander could accept a new embarrassing reality provided by science, Doctor Moriarty called Sgt. Davies back into the room and turned the machine back on. Upon entering, Moriarty instructed the female Sergeant to stand in front of the machine. The bulky, pillowy Sergeant did so at once.

“Not only is the sergeant closer to the beam of the disgroinificator, she has the added handicap of not having the beam have to pass through glass—although it has not been determined if this has any mitigating effect and frankly, the inchoate hypothesis is that it does not.” The Sergeant stood in front of the machine, her camouflage shirt bulging at a few of the straining buttons. She stood and she smiled. She turned around. She turned around again. Stryker’s mortification momentarily abated as his eyes fixed on the rounded rump of the Sergeant, jiggling as she stepped in circles. Okay, so he’d felt that mass of meat one time, felt it in the palm of his hand. He reminded himself of the time he’d reached out around his desk and grabbed it right there in his office when she was delivering a memorandum and he’d shaken it and felt it in all its rounded glory. Davies didn’t file a sexual harassment suit—she was more of a mind to kick his ass right there. Her mistake was in voicing this, in verbally excoriating a commanding officer. And the two had come to a kind of truce about the whole affair. Nothing was happening.

Clearly, Davies was enjoying this. She raised the palms of her hands to the ceiling, smile widening, as if to say, “See, this is nothing.”

“See for yourself, Commander. The machine is set to maximum volume.”

“This is crap!” bellowed Commander Stryker, who could take no more. “You’re not gonna fool me with these parlor tricks. Look, I know I’ve given you gals a lot of shit over the past year, but come on—you’re puttin’ me on, right?”

“I’m afraid not, Commander,” said the Doctor, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, come on!” said Stryker, vehemently, and he stepped over where Sgt. Davies was standing and, eschewing decorum, physically pushed the sergeant out of the way. Instantly his angry demeanor changed drastically.


Commander Stryker’s entire body went stiff and his chin lifted toward the ceiling, exposing a filigree of flaring, straining neck veins. A split second later his knees buckled and clocked clumsily together as curled downward into a standing fetal position, both hands cupped to his groin. A moment later he was kissing linoleum, fetal style.

Removing the chips of wood under the beam end of the disgroinificator, focusing the perimeter of the invisible beam downward at the floor, Doctor Moriarty mused, “What do you think, Sergeant, should we turn it off?”

Commander Stryker writhed on the floor like a dying bug under a magnifying glass on a hot summer’s day.


“Not yet,” snapped the sergeant, standing over her sexually harassing superior.

“Not just yet.”

Men Are Such Crybabies (Part Deux)

By hughgee

Think I told you guys about my little run-in with a diminutive part-time ballerina chick, a friend of my girlfriend's, and a general all-around pain in the ass. Okay, so maybe it's another part of the anatomy that she's a pain in. Whatever. The point is, somebody help me, I AM STILL DEALING WITH THIS CRAP OVER HERE!

Guess I should've expected it. Guess I was somehow just hoping that that last little embarrassing 'incident' between her and my girlfriend and myself would just go away. The one about female self-defense and a class she was taking and a certain bet about the durability of balls that I took and I then quickly, oh so hastily lost big time. Yeah, that little incident. Anyway, what was I thinking? The little p/t ballerina girl--who shall remain unnamed, to protect the innocent and maybe not-so-innocent and maybe the just plain unfair and cruel--is my girlfriend's best friend! Of course she's going to still be coming over, and of course she's not going to let it drop, what she did to me, how she humiliated me and made it look so easy. She comes over now and makes fun of me. This has been going on for a coupla months now.

What happens is, the average weekend rolls around, my girlfriend comes over, later on her little ball-blasting blabby-but-oh-so-not-flabby buddy tags along and also shows up. They both lay around my house looking at their fingernails they pinched the crap out of my sack with that one time, and they go on and on chick-talking before finally deciding on what they want to do for their Saturday afternoon without me. Now if it was just that, that's even fine. But no, it's not just that. If I happen to walk by the living room or whatever, the little midget bulbous-thighed ballerina hussy teases the crap out of me, twirls her hair at me, says she's so much tougher than me, etc., and I'm getting sick of it, and guys, I'm sorry but I don't know what to do at this point.

OK, so the bet happened already. You guys know that. I already admitted that. I let the little gal tag me in the nuts half-speed, thinking my machoness could take it, it hurt like hell way deep inside a lot, lot, LOT more than I was expecting. I instantly went helpless and dropped down and stayed that way, even though I'm such a huge big guy next to her; then the girl went on to show my girlfriend something, some strange pressure point spot on my body I didn't know I had but that my Girlfriend and Ballerina girl didn't, then when that spot proved to indeed be so wretchedly hyper-sensitive to even the most minutest of pinchings from even the most delicate of fingers---never mind, that's enough of that. I'm probably turning red at the keyboard here.

At any rate, the first time I knew I was going to have a real serious ongoing problem with this little gal was 2 weeks later when she came over again. Look, I don't know how else to put this, but the little girl is ballsy, okay? She's brassy, she's domineering, she's in-your-face, she's a master of psychological/verbal head games--and she's fricking pint-sized, and she really pisses me off. They were in the living room, ballerina bitchette and my girlfriend, it was Saturday morn. My girlfriend was wearing a bulging black sweater, was sitting upright in one of my blue leather not-so-inexpensive chairs, and as my girlfriend usually slouches, literally from the weight of her breasts, so she was doing.

The other one, Her Little Brassyness herself, was laying kind of diagonally across the chair, head lolled lazily off to the side, I guess you'd call it languidly, with one leg draped over the armrest, tiny little foot dangling and bobbing and dancing around from the piston-like flexings of her overly proportioned thick muscular dancing thigh. Ballerina gal was wearing a pink tie-dye t-shirt, a tad bit oversize for her, black yellow stretch pants, and I have no idea where her shoes were, she apparently maybe came over to my house just in just her girly half-socks only or something, since that's all I actually ever got to see. There was something else I couldn't make out on her motioning sock, attached to them at the top in back, jangling around when she drove her foot up and down, kicking the poor air, but better the air than me, I thought. I just wish they'd both go out and do something, dammit. The one socked foot bouncing bounce bouncing, it was rather hypnotic when you looked, but no, just don't look at it; her other foot was hidden, tucked up under her butt, at least. The butt I've seen before from behind when she walks and...oh those dancing glutes.

Ballerina saw me walk by the living room, on my way to the kitchen, where I was in fact about to attempt to fix my busted kitchen sink, but that's another story. Now, if it was just me, when she started in on me, started teasing me about, Do I want her to kick me again? How embarrassing would that be? Geez, I wouldn't have minded that much, just if it was me only. OK a little I'd still mind maybe. But dammit, I had my friend Mike over; he was supposed to be helping me fix the sink. And folks, I don't really need to be embarrassed badly by a little gal, not in front of a buddy of mine. Well it turned out Mike didn't know jack ass squat about sinks like he told me, so I ended up sending him out for a couple of parts at Ace, more to get him out of my way than anything else, the untruthful asshole.

Not too long after that was when I heard HER calling my name out in the living room, teasing me about how dopey, how dumb did I look when she dropped me two weeks prior, and wouldn't I like to see it again? She knows she sure would. She was totally not serious. She was totally just having fun, talking bawdily for the sake of being vulgar and to tease. But I was sick of it at this point. I got out from under the kitchen sink, went out to the living room, there's my girlfriend, there's her big boobs, there's the bobbing bob bobbing white cotton foot again on the little bitchy one, there's her big giant honking little nose pointed up at me, feigning innocence all of a sudden, huge white teeth underneath her shnozola, big brown laughing eyes at me, trying to outstare me again and winning. By the way, before I go on, yes she's pretty, yes she's cute, yes she dances and all that, but dudes, c'mon, my girlfriend may have a little extra on her, but she's a 38F for goodness sakes--she knows she's got nothing to worry about from nobody. Yikes.

So anyway, I was pissed now. But I'm not stupid. I know ballerina’s only got one move, and I wasn't within her kicking range when I said what I was about to say, leering over and down at her: "Look, just get the hell out of my house, okay? You proved your point; you kicked me in the nuts the last time you were here, and whatever. But just shut up about it, all right? Especially when I got company over!!"

Her little know-it-all face looking up at me gets cartoonishly sad suddenly; little ballerina adopts this sickeningly fake look of having her feelings hurt. Yeah, right, as you'll soon see, she has no feelings to even do that to. She's apparently from Mars and is indestructible. “Oh, is little Baby Hughey sad at me? I so sorry. I so sorry I hurt you, you big baby.”

“Listen, shut up. Just shut up about it, all right? Now just go do something, both of you. Get the hell out of here!” I turned to my girlfriend, instructing her to please take her li’l' friend and go to the mall or something, go do anything, just get this little terror out of my house. Suddenly, as had happened two weeks ago, my girlfriend completely turned on me. I swear it's getting to where, just when I think I know her, I really don't know jack about her. My girlfriend just laughed at me and suggested I 'make her shut up and leave if I was such a big man about it.

Well, I think I told you guys last time, I AM a big man. I'm a competitive bodybuilder. Well, OK, so I'm an amateur still, but still it's competitive, and still I'm a damn giant next to the little ballerina bitch sitting down in my own chair mocking me. Look, it's like this, if you cloned this little ballerina chick and had four of them sitting on the bench bar, I could bench them--and then some. So why is she looking up at me now and saying "Come on, big guy. Come on over here and make me get out of this chair" at me? This is astounding. How galling is this? I know I am turning red in front of her. I also know I am a bit scared, yes I admit it ok, after what she did to me the last time. You just never know, and dang, that hurt pretty bad before. So be careful, watch your balls whatever you do. Just hope I can get through this lifetime without them so much as even being tapped again! But like I said, I'm not stupid; however I was pissed off and I couldn't very well back down at this point, so yes you better believe I approached her, all right. I approached till I was right up over her and on her bobbing little dangerous weapon of a foot--but I was careful to stand to the side, presenting only my side of my hip to her.

“Get up and get out. I'm tired of it. Just go, just go now, okay?”

She just laughs up at me, still staring, still seeing to it that I blink first, and I'm wondering if this super-human muscle-bound feminine dwarf ever blinks, and now she even does one of those nose-honking laughs that means it's real, genuine, uninhibited, spontaneous laughter. Out her big little nose, it sounded like a snork, snork. She covers her nose in her hand. Then she looks quite seriously up at me, deeply up into my eyes. “Hugh, um, why are you standing off to the side like that?”

“I think we both know.”

Ballerina, foot still bouncing all the while, suddenly points to the bouncing appendage. She invites me to look at her little foot, even slowing down its frisky bouncing so I can get a better look. “Look, see what these are?”

Something on the back of her half-sock, I can see them better now. Her sock has a very thin pink and red trim stripe at the top, in kind of alternating pattern. But on the back there are two bimble-bomble looking things, two of what are apparently little yellow cotton puff balls, apparently part of the design of the sock, just to make it look cute or something. But that's not what her story is, of course.

“Look, these are like notch-marks. Every time I get a guy in the balls, I put another pair of these on here.”

I could hear my girlfriend bust up laughing behind me.

Ballerina continued, “Oh, and notice how they're yellow. Guys go yellow around me, so do their balls. Talk about foot power!” She straightens her leg taut for a second, straight up to my ceiling, evincing an incredible amount of dexterity and an even more incredible rippling of steel-banded mini thigh and calf muscles. “Hey, I got another pair of trophy balls on my sock here that's under my butt--Hey, means I must've got a guy once with each foot.” Howling laughter out of both girls.

“That's it. You won't leave; I'm throwing you out of here.”

At this, my girlfriend in the background could be heard, just inviting me to 'let it go' and get back to fixing my sink in the kitchen.

“No dice,” I say, eyes for a second leaving off being transfixed on my little feminine antagonizer. This shit was going to stop and it was going to stop now, I said, more or less in those words. I was still wisely standing sideways, but my eyes straying for just one instant, now that was kind of a dumb thing I did. I never would've thought she could've gotten me so fast, especially not without moving her whole body around in the chair first. But as it turned out, I guess all she did was move her little sonuvabitchin' deadly foot and that's it.

Somehow, I still ain't so sure, she was able to kick around the side of my hip, and have her cotton foot come up and in on me, like a wicked curve ball or something. It was probably the top of her little toes that made the quick, innocent, telltale little BOFF! sound in my trousers upon impact. It emanated throughout the room like a submarine sonar ping. Trouble is, the torpedo had already hit me amidships. It was over. I was over. I now know that when you get tagged in the balls, and when it's a really, really good tag, well there's a quick split second when you don't feel it and you think everything's still going to be okay. Yep. Then the implosions start happening and you sink. Dang, this was no 'half-speed' kick anymore, the bitch. She somehow really nailed me from her awkward position. Felt like I was a little boy; I wanted to cry; 'Mommy! Mommy! A bad thing just happened in my tummy! Mommy, help me, it won't go away, a bad exploding in my tummy keeps on getting worse and worse and worse now! Mommy help! Please help me! I be good from now on, I promise! I always will be nice to her, be nice to the dancing little ballerina girl, I be nice so she won't hurt me no more! I do whatever she says!'

And I hang there, in space, looking down at her. I am hunching over her, she sits and I am momentarily standing but I am the one who is already hopelessly helpless. In fact, it just made what she did to me look that much more easy, seeing her look up at me, smiling, reclining, dimples on both sides of her teeth, a cute yet somehow malevolent sounding little snicker finally emitting from between those teeth. My girlfriend, who saw the train accident from behind, later told me that when I got kicked, the way my knees caved in, they kind of went inwards and knocked together. Maybe that's what was propping me up for what seemed like an eternity of defeated helplessness over my triumphant little tormentor, that bitch! I don't know. All I know is, it felt for that little brief span of a second or two, that I was on parade for her; that she had beat me down and defeated the hell out of me with one brief little flick of her foot (again) and that I was hanging there, a kind of goggle-eyed spectacle of a trophy. She'd make a good little taxidermist, let me tell you.

It's weird when you get kicked real hard down there, fellas. And girls if you're reading this. So different. So different from when it's just a partial blow. It feels like you’re not even of this world or something. Or at least, you don't want to be. You're stuck inside a body that is causing you untold horrendous amounts of pain in its very center, you can't breathe, you can't talk, you feel like you have to take a dump. Dang, it was all systems shut down or something. You want to abandon ship. It's complete and involuntary surrender to whomever or whatever just racked you down there. It's the epitome of defeat, because of its sweeping overwhelming nature, combined with its suddenness.

Especially when you have a five foot tall ballerina girl standing over your curled up wreck of use-to-be hulking body, your involuntary fetal position she just put you in, and then she starts waving her decorative bimble-bombled socks in front of and under your nose. And yes, they did smell. She apparently did indeed wear those socks over here and nothing else; she apparently did have those socks on for quite more time than just that, let me tell you.

“How 'bout these for sexy feminine sweaty feeties, big guy?” she said. She was laughing, yes, when she said it. I could do nothing. I was in my own world of agony, with stinky chick feet in my face. I couldn't talk either. I just had to sit and take it. Who cares, I'm oblivious to the world outside my body. All I can think about is my poor balls and my poor jangled up guts right now. Oh, this is bad, it was so dang bad. Wait. Feel someone getting closer. Ballerina girl. Feel her breath go hot on my cheek. She's whispering in my cheek, in my ear. Her voice croaks when she whispers, if I was a window I'd have steam all over me probably.

“Guess I'll have to get another set of balls for my socks, Hughey. Baby, baby Hughey, baby. Have to sew them right on there. Another notch for me. Thanks for participating. Thanks, big guy. Bigger they are, bigger their balls are, and that means falling faster for longer. Thanks, ha, ha.”

Hear my girlfriend laughing. Wish I could watch her boobs when she's doing it. I can't even get out of this rolled up ball I'm in right now. Here's where they go out and leave me finally. Again.

Men Are Such Crybabies

By hughgee

I'm a big dude, a bodybuilder in fact. At 6-3, 225, I've always been pretty sure I could take care of myself in most any situation. That changed recently; until recently, I had never been hit in the nuts. I mean, I always knew nuts were sensitive and all, and I've seen all the martial arts movies where some fight ends because some guy got it "down there"--but I guess it never really hits you until, well, until it really hits you. Gimme a break: how was I supposed to know all guys carry around an instant full-on instant self-destruct button (one that is terribly easy for others to access, mind you), unless I've actually felt it for myself? Guess I'd been lucky till now. However...

My girlfriend's best friend is a colossally cute little thing; ridiculously tiny--"petite" would be a bit of an understatement even. She's not even 5 feet tall, and must weigh around a hundred pounds or so. I met her for the first time the other day, after having heard many a story about her from my girlfriend. Oh you know, silly stories about what silly little exploits girls do together. The usual dumb female stuff.

Anyway, my girlfriend had mentioned to me that this tiny girl did a little ballet dancing on the side--kind of a hobby thing of hers. And let me tell you: it's amazing what a dancing hobby can do for a set of female legs, because I was entirely taken aback by the appearance of this girl's set of struts. The girl came in wearing a cute red and white floral short dress which barely covered up her butt and so revealed about all of her legs, and I could not believe how muscular they were! Her thighs and calves showed nicely contoured bulges--almost like a comic book female drawing. That's how sculpted they looked. I was going nuts over those legs, not that I would ever tell my girlfriend, of course.

I soon found that even though the girl was extremely diminutive, she had an ego and a tomboyish attitude you wouldn't believe. She obviously was a rather spoiled child, and an even more spoiled and bitchy "adult"--if you could even call her one, she was so damn small. It was kind of like listening to a chihuahua yipping and barking and not knowing it's own limitations. Gimme a break, the girl was talking about some fight she'd once had with this one other girl whom my girlfriend apparently knows. Oh yeah, she thought she was real tough, all right.

Anyhow, at one point during the conversation, this little gal started bragging to my girlfriend about how she'd taken a couple of measly self-defense courses, and could "handle herself" in this or that "dangerous" situation. It was so stupid (so I thought at the time). She was trying to get my girlfriend to join her in this one self defense course. She even said how great it was to know you could "take down" a guy if she ever wanted to.

At this, in my "unenlightened" state, I couldn't help but butt in and defend my gender. I came in and loudly scoffed at her naïveté. Oh yes, I happened to be walking by in the room at the time and I laughed out loud and called her a "tough little ballerina chicky-poo." I said something like that.

I couldn't believe what she did next. She right away started talking openly about my BALLS. That's MY balls, mind you. My own personal pair. No hesitation at all. She started talking about throwing out this information regarding my balls and their supposedly being so "vulnerable," all for the benefit of my listening girlfriend. It was crazy. Such temerity this li’l gal had! She also did a bit of laughing right back at me, and even dared me to stand there and let her kick me "down there"--promising she would only do it "half speed"--whatever the hell that meant. The little imp said I wouldn't be able to handle it, that I'd "cave and go down instantly"--even if she held back and did only half speed like that, like she promised to do. Half speed, half strength. I don't know. She said something like that. Then my girlfriend even joined in, of all things. She too seemed eager to see it happen, to see my reaction, she said--and she even vouched for the girl's veracity, indicating that, yes, her girlfriend was an honest enough person, and if she said she would hold back, she would. So I shouldn't have anything to worry about, right?

Again, as I already said, all my life I never have been hit in the balls. And hell, here I'm about a foot and a half taller than this gal, and about twice as heavy, so gimme a break. So I took her up on it. I accepted her challenge.

I stood there and let her have at my awaiting balls, half strength. I was confident; I shouldn't have been. In one smooth and graceful motion, without any telegraphed movements of the rest of her diminutive frame, I saw her muscular little ballerina leg coming up, not that fast even, almost in slo-mo, and she had on these tiny little white half-socks with frilly top stitching (she had slipped out of her cloggy sandal-shoes) and then I felt an alarming jolt of nausea, the sickening pain in my stomach, working its way up, throughout, and lingering. But hell--I was already on the ground by then. Now for the tough part: I know for a fact she was true to her word and only kicked me about half as hard as she could have. Oh man, judging from the formidable shape those little legs of hers were in, she could have nailed me so much more swiftly, so much more powerfully--it's still scary to think about that, considering the distressing amount of pain I was in, and for how long it was lasting, and lasting, and lasting.

The girls helped me up after about a full minute or so of them standing over me (I am guessing), talking and giggling, and then, for the next 5 minutes or so, I just sat there on the sofa, with my legs spread apart, my lips parted but my breathing strained, cupping my balls with both hands. I couldn't help but rub at them as I sat there, in something like shock.

The two girls sat there in the same room with me for those 5 minutes, talking about me and "my poor balls," and how "easy it is to really hurt a guy." My girlfriend even mused, "I always wondered, why do they always sit and hold them? The damage is already done, right?" She thought that was really funny.

Great. That's just great, I thought.

My girlfriend decided to join the self defense class, right then and there. Why not--she didn't need me anymore to consult with about anything suddenly. I just sat there helpless and had to listen to them talk about my "weakness", as they put it--and who was I to argue? I couldn't believe a tiny gal like this could devastate me so easily, without even trying that hard. But there was an even more sobering realization on the way for me, a few moments later.

In the middle of one of her confounding statements extolling the virtues of a "ball kick" to my girlfriend, this same li’l ballerina gal stopped in mid-sentence, snapping her tongue as though she suddenly remembered something.

She goes, "Oh my gosh. Do you know about the "Cry Baby Nerve"?

"The what?" my girlfriend asked, nonplussed.

The gal stood up from her chair. There was that snapping of the tongue again, this time accompanied by an impulsive stomping of her frilly socked foot like an impatient, spoiled little girl being denied a candy. "The CRY baby nerve," she repeated. Her arms grew taut and she impetuously slapped the sides of her fists into her hips. "Oh my gosh. You HAVE to let me show you."

"Okay," my girlfriend hesitatedly said, her voice trailing off. Yet there was a genuine and discernible curiosity in my girlfriend's voice.

The ballerina girl said, putting a trill on certain syllables, like an adolescent with an annoyingly superficial attitude: "MMMMM, but there's a's in thERE." She was pointing at my crotch.

"Yeah," my girlfriend said, "so what is it? His balls again?"

The ballerina was being coy about spitting it out. Her arms were outstretched behind her back, with her fingers interlocking, and she was swaying from side to side at the waist. Dammit if my girlfriend's girlfriend didn't have the look and the sound of a little girl down pat!--and her body certainly wasn't much bigger. Yet, for all the years my girlfriend's known this little gal, not to mention the much shorter span of time I've been bulldozed around by her, neither one of us had any idea that the child-like adult woman had a brain like Einstein when it came to knowledge about the anatomical differences between the sexes.

"The C-rrryyybaby Nerve," she peevishly whined. Then she hopped on her bare socks three or four times in rapid succession on the floor. "Oh my gosh. You HAVE to let me show you. You have to." She was pointing some more at my crotch. Boy was she ever antsy all of a sudden.

My girlfriend: "Okay. Show me."

The ballerina: "You need to unzip him."

My girlfriend: "You do it."

This surprised the hell out of me, needless to say. At any rate, thank goodness I lift weights so much, or else in my weakened state I wouldn't have been able to fend off this little 100 lb. dimpled marauder from accosting my nuts. However, when MY OWN girlfriend suddenly seized me by the balls, her fist making a tight ball over my denim package, I was done for. My girlfriend, with teeth gritting, seethed, "Let her!" And I was like, Whoa, where'd that come from? That's on top of the look of complete and total surrender I was giving.

So the li’l gal unzipped me, my girlfriend watching--the both of them giggling the whole time, mind you. They then took a seat next to me, one on each side of me. They even wrapped one arm each around my shoulders. I understood that this would be a most intimate session of learning for myself, and my girlfriend. Then they took my ballsack out with their free hands--scooped it out, really--feeling it gently all over the place like some soft, fat peach from a grocer's shelf. And damn if the both of them didn't start in with their fingers, pressing down, examining. I could feel their soft fingers on my bag. I could also feel their nails at times. They both felt damn good.

"God, I love these things," the li’l gal's voice said, languidly, a trill of satisfied croaking to her voice.

"So, did I pick a good pair or what?" was my girlfriend's bawdily comic response. You want to hear something funny? This is the part where my sense of the masculine pride and power was actually returning to me. Yeah, I know. I'm a slow learner, what can I say.

"So hey, what's this Crybaby thing?"

"Crybaby NERVE," the ballerina girl corrected. "Watch. All guys have this." I suddenly and helplessly shuddered on the sofa, I went rigid all over as I felt her fingers probe more deeply into my sack, rooting around for something. Yeah, but for what? The li’l gal liked blabbing her head off, that was for sure. She continued talking while her fingers continued their manipulation of my sack. She said, "The first time I found it was on Eddie."

"That was two boyfriends ago," scoffed my girlfriend. Her big boobs bounced a bit when she said this, so naturally, I started watching them for more future undulations beneath that sweater of hers.

"I know, but I tried it on Roger too." The ballerina gal continued distractedly, looking away, like a plumber chatting with a client while working on a pipe under a kitchen sink. "He gots it also. They ALL got it, I'm telling you."

"Got what?" There went the boobs again.

"Let's see..." the gal was even now murmuring to herself, staring vacantly at the wall opposite us, as she probed away with her slender digits. ”It ought to"

So help me if my life didn't flash before my eyes. It felt like a barbell with 420 lbs on it (the most I've ever benched) had been slowly set, then dropped entirely, on nothing but my abdomen, crushing my diaphragm for a moment, and then, a moment later, had been thankfully --oh thank God--lifted back off. Now when it had first happened, I had heard myself emit this involuntary, high-pitched, loud, and quite pathetic groaning sound. (Did I just make a noise like that?!?) Another thing that had happened was that my eyes instantly left off looking at my girlfriend's boobs, and, whipping my head around, were at once intensely riveted on the sparkling, intently staring eyes of this li’l ballerina girl, who was now carefully scrutinizing me for giveaway facial reactions.

Peripherally, I saw her strong, white teeth bared in a broad, confident smile; I saw her big, prominent nose (the only big thing on her!) bearing in on me, almost forcing me backwards; but most of all I saw her smiling dead stare. So help me, I had the feeling she was looking through the back of my eyes for that briefest of moments, like she could see behind it how my brain was in a panic, cowering in terrified submission before her. All I could see of her eyes was these beautiful brown circles surrounding two bull’s-eyes of blackness. On a more definite level, she was of course also studying me for giveaway facial expressions, and I think it very likely that I had a few contorted expressions to offer her, as well as that pathetic little groan I just did, because this gal was positively beaming with some twisted version of joy.

"Found it!" she exclaimed. Another high-pitched helpless groan leapt out of me. "There it is. I found it." The gal was in triumph over herself--mostly over me though.

There. Oh my--That pressure again. Oh man, I just groaned again--a kind of a groan that sounds like part sigh, part scream--whatever it is, I am helpless to stop it. The little ballerina girl is doing something, something with her fingers, doing it to me; and when she does it, it feels like the whole entire ceiling suddenly keeps coming down and resting on my stomach. Oh man, the groan again. Somewhere in the world there's probably some species of male frog that emits a sound like that--but a male human just ain't supposed to sound like that.

"What is it?" my girlfriend eagerly asked finally. "What are you doing to him?"

The li’l ballerina continued talking distractedly, still like a plumber with an arm under the kitchen sick, staring absently up at the ceiling now, answering my girlfriend with a snapping of that impatient-sounding tongue, then: "Mmm, it's like, their cord...that runs up from their balls...up into here." She looked and pointed at my stomach. "It's like their connector cord or something. There's one part where the nerve is like completely exposed or something. It's the same one that makes it hurt so bad when they get kicked down there. Same exact nerve."

"Really," my girlfriend replied, genuinely, increasingly fascinated.

"Oh, and watch--here's why it's called crybaby--when you do THIS--"

Suddenly I felt searing pain and soaring pleasure all melded, intermingled as one. I couldn't tell them apart; all I knew was that I was enveloped in an overwhelming and oppressive haze, a palpable dreamlike state of pure raw ecstasy, and unadulterated anguish. Oh my gosh--is that me crying?!? Yes. There's this high-pitched mewling sound and it's coming out of me. That's disgusting. That's embarrassing. And I can't STOP it--and I don't even want to stop it. I am blubbering, and slowly curling over, bending forward, towards my lap as the ballerina gal's finger's do their magical dirty work. I cry, "I love you guys. I love you, both of you. I love you much." My girlfriend laughs again, but louder now.

"Oh my gosh," the ballerina said. "They all say that. I swear, they say the exact same thing every time."

"So like, what exactly are you doing to him?" asked my eager girlfriend. "What it that?"

The pressure was still there on my insides, but it did ease up a little bit, as the ballerina gal looked over at my girlfriend, and with her free hand which she brought back over my head, she starts motioning, emulating her other hand, explaining what the other was doing to the insides of my ballsack.

She said, "It's like this. You go like this to that one connector nerve." With bulging eyes I saw her free hand began slowly, perceptibly, motioning up and down at the wrist, lazily like a "royal wave," only vertical; meanwhile her thumb and forefinger rubbed together gently, like a child might do at the beach when examining the texture of several grains of sand. So that's what she was doing? So that's ALL she was doing?!? Her two fingers, rubbing them together? That was it? That was having all this crippling effect on me??? There it is again. The uncontrollable urge to cry. She obviously just increased the pressure of her slight rubbing again, she--I'm bawling my heart out, telling the both of them how much I love them, how much they mean to me, how very special and dear they are to me, etc, etc.

"Awwww, I think he needs a shoulder to cry on, sis," the all-too-wise and domineering little ballerina cooed. With that, my girlfriend put my head on her shoulder. It was a natural progression for my head to be there, since I had again had started to involuntarily lean over at her, leaning forward and to the side, bawling misty-eyed, as the girl rubbed away at some mysterious and mortifyingly vulnerable nerve inside my sack.

"There, there," my girlfriend cooed, as she patted the back of my neck. I continued to moan, and cry, and sigh, and groan--and say horrendously stupid things of all kind.

"I swear," the ballerina gal said, "They ought to use this in torture chambers or something--you could get a guy to say anything doing this!"

My girlfriend agreed. Then she said, obliquely, "So, the Crybaby Nerve, huh?"

And I knew, when she said it, that this would not be the last time I would be going through an ordeal like this. This would not be the last time I would have the feeling of helplessness, of irresistible and crushing pressure brought to bear on the very fiber of my inside being, just by a gentle pinch of a female's fingers.

(Oh yeah: My own girlfriend found and fiddled with my other "Crybaby nerve" only moments later. At first it hurt more when my girlfriend did it, since her fingers were more inexperienced and did a lot of brutal fumbling around. But she got better as she went along, believe me. Then they both went out shopping, laughing their asses off even as they exited the house. I don't know where. I was too out of it. The bottom line in all this is I don't feel that confident in my manhood anymore. Not by a long shot.)