Futuristic Beach Bust

Futuristic Beach Bust

By hughgee

Venice Beach looked like a Hindu Hari Krishna festival, jammed with people, jammed with foreigners, shops, stands, exotic foods, jugglers and magic trick hoaxers all out to pimp a buck.

“Ah-bah-diddy! Ah-biddy-biddy!”

“Ohhhh yes, my friend. Watches! I have watches! I have plenty watches for sale.” Che Guevara T-shirts waving, hung up next to tie-dyes, across from multi-colored flip-flop sandals. Everything for sale. Freak show central. The strip of asphalt running along the beach was full of walkers, strollers, bikers, roller skaters and roller bladders. The usual for Saturday morning. A young bikinied woman zoomed along on cherry red rollerblades with snow white laces, long sandy straight hair streaming in her tail wind, listening to earbud headphones, thin yellow cord descending down to her wrist upon which was Velcro-strapped a small yellow-silver mp3 player.

Here she comes and the kind of lips she smiles with, pink and puffy, makes more than one of the guys she zooms past think of blow jobs. Blow jobs and she knows it. She has that knowing look. She knows her bare midriff is a good bare midriff, sleek and supple; knows the legs she pushes off on look damn good in a skirt. They look damn good now, and she knows it. She knows what she has and she flaunts it, smiling and cavorting in circles around the cute ones, then moving on down the strip to the next. Everything matches, and she has a new yellow fanny pack strapped around her waist where the sweat of bare skin rubs against it. And she’s unzipping the thing as we speak, reaching in, grabbing something. She’s got it, and she draws it up to her lips. Something silver, pencil-like but shorter. She skates on, skating past men, couples, freaks and foreigners. She takes a deep breath, she blows as she skates.

“Ooooo.”

“Aaaaa.”

“Ohhh.”

She can’t hear it. There she goes.

Three men she just went by grabbed their Bermuda shorts and bent over at the waist. Skating and blowing. Look at her. Zoom.

“Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong, honey?” the dumpy woman in the black bikini asks.

“My balls.”

“Your balls?”

“Yeah.”

Skating, blowing, zooming on by some more.

“Ohhhh.”

“Damn! Ow!”

“Oh! Oh!”

Three more, bent over in her wake, all male.

Two women talking who were walking with the stricken males: “She’s got one of those things,” says the one.

“That bitch.”

Another woman knows what’s up. She looks at the girl’s teardrop, partially-clad-in-pink rear end as she skates away and she hears the girl laughing.

“What a bitch.”

The guys sit down in the sand one by one. The ones who were walking alongside women get help from their mates. The women help their men off the strip and gently ease them down as they moan, one and all, moaning and cupping their ballsacks through their swimwear.

“Here she comes—she’s coming back!” one of the women announces.

And she was. She made a loop and was headed back this way again, leaving a trail of stooping, anguished men in her wake.

“Dammit, what’s she doing? That bitch.”

“Get her. Grab her!” one of the ladies says.

And when she’s close enough again, they do. The young woman on the rollerblades, accosted by three angry women whose men are hurting.

“Dammit, girl, what the hell you doin’?”

“She can’t hear you. Take that thing out.”

One of the ladies yanks the earphones out of the girl as she looks surprised and half certain of what to do, whether to flee or blow some more on her whistle. She blows. Big this time, a big, big breath then blows, and three of the guys in the background already butt-planted in the sand turn over to one side and let out feeble hollers like somebody’s jabbing at their insides. Which is what it feels like when somebody comes at you, comes at your testicles with low-frequency soundwaves in the decibel of -.0359? Thank you, Disgronificator Technologies. Men of the world rejoice.

“Ha, ha!” the girl chortles, pointing over at the men, sides on the sand, feet curled up underneath the seat of their Bermuda shorts. “Your guys are done.”

“Girl, what’s with you? You know you can hurt somebody with those things.” The woman who said this yanked the whistle out of the girl’s mouth.

“Can’t help it if your men are such sissies,” says the girl, impishly.

“Aw, girl, don’t you rile me now. Don’t you—don’t even do it, y’hear.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“Make me,” says the imp. She distracts the lady holding the whistle, points at a turbaned Hindu freak walking by, long enough to snatch back the whistle. Blow, baby, blow. Long and hard, all her might. Just blowing.

“Ohhh—oooohhh—ohhh!!” says a rolling-around man.

“Oooooo—shit!—shit!—Ooooo,” says another, equally rolling around on the sand.

“Honey—please—make her stop!” wails another to his wife, one of the three angry accosting women. They try to snatch back the whistle. Cat fight. Bikinis fly. The girl’s tits are small; the middle aged woman who also had her top yanked, her tits are large, long, hanging down nearly to her belly button. The middle aged tits flap and undulate as the women struggle. Handfuls of hair.

The young woman breaks free, skates off, scratched and bleeding on the arms and one shoulder.

“Bitch!” they call after her. “Don’t you dare come back here!”

“Tend to your men!” the girl yells back. “Pussies!”

The women walk back to their men, old long-tits stopping to retrieve her bikini top off the asphalt.

“Oh, Howard, are you okay?”

“Don? Don? Can you talk?”

No answer. There’s your answer.

People go by. The freak show continues.

“I don’t understand it,” says one woman, standing over her fallen man. “Why can’t they handle it?”

The long-titted woman, leaning over her man: “Because they’ve got balls.”

“Yeah, but so what?”

“So what?—LOOK at them! They’re in pain.”

“Yeah, I know. But those damn whistles do nothin’ to us.”

“Low-frequency sound waves,” says the other woman, sitting down beside her man who was still fetal-positioned up in the sand.

“I know. I know. But what do they do? What the hell do they do to them?”

“The sound penetrates their scrotum,” explains old long-tits, peering up into the sun at the one befuddled, still-standing woman. “There’s nerve-endings in there. We got ‘em too, but they’re higher up.” She points at her bare, fat-rolled abdomen. “Men’s hang out and the scrotum’s too thin. It goes right through.”

“Shit,” mutters the standing woman. She goes over to her man. She waits. And waits. It’s hot. “Herbert, when you think you’re gonna be able to get up, huh?”

A groan. Only a groan.

Men, the woman thinks. Such wimps. We really have to look after them.