Men Are Such Crybabies

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 PROblem...it'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 be...right...here--"

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 guys...so 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.)

(Part Deux)

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.