Jugs visits franksolich. “She’s coming back,” I told my visitor.
“She’s coming back even though I want to have nothing to do with her. Despite that I’m ill and in far worse condition than the big blob in Bellevue, the Omaha Steve primitive, dutch508 took it upon himself to invite her to come and see me—“
“That doesn’t sound like any sort of unusual problem for you,” my visitor interrupted; “your having to put up with people, some of them not pleasant, all the time—“
“But remember who this is,” I interrupted in turn; “she’s coming here to get laid.
“She forgets franksolich doesn’t lay just anybody; I have standards.
“And then after she’s gone back home up to Minnesota, she’s going to bawl and whine to all her women’s-libber gal-pals about what jerks, what pigs, what rectal apertures, we men are.
“Or she’s going to insist that I’m selfish, because I know how badly she wants it, how badly she needs it, and I won’t give it to her.”
“But it won’t make any difference what I do—if I refuse to hop around in the sack with her, she’s going to bitch and moan that I think myself too good for her, but if I hop around in the sack with her, she’s going to gripe and complain that, like all men, franksolich wants her only for her body.
“She can’t get it into her head that the last thing this man wants is her body—
“And worst of all—and you know this is gonna happen—because I won’t be up for her, she’s going to go back to Skins’s island and tell her fellow primitives that I’m queer, that women don’t turn me on.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Oh, her,” he said, finally realizing who I was talking about.
“Yes, her, Jugs,” I confirmed, “and I’m going to have to tell her that certain aspects of her are a turn-off for me, that the sight of them can’t get me animated no matter how hard I try, and so I don’t wish to have her.
“She’s got to understand that if I’m ever going to like her, it’ll be for her mind, not for…..those.
“But she’s not going to understand, or even try to; she’s fixated with this notion that men like her for certain anatomical characteristics of hers, and hence thinks I should too.
“That I don’t, confuses her. As I’m the only holdout, she thinks there’s something wrong with me.
“And then in the manner of women, she thinks I can be changed, ‘reformed’ if the right feminine tricks and ruses are applied, getting me to hop around in the sack with her—“
“Well, that’s the solution to your problem,” he said; “just hop around in the sack with her, and send her on her way.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Now you don’t understand,” I protested. “Even though a hot-blooded American male bursting with masculinity and machissimo, I can’t hop around in the sack with her. I’ll never get it up, leading her to suppose franksolich is impotent, not man enough to have her.
“But when looking at those two, uh, things, hanging from her, I’m limp as a dead fish.
“And the blunt truth of the matter is, I’m a nice guy; if a woman needs me, I’m willing. I really wish I could tell her ‘okay, I’m up for it, so let’s start hopping.’
“But those massive jugs of hers are a turn-off,” I said; “they’re way out of proportion to the rest of her body.
“In fact, I’m very surprised she hasn’t tipped over yet.
“Oversized jugs, I consider a birth defect, much as a cleft palate or webbed feet. And being a birth defect, and correctable—not all are—it’s something that should be taken care of as early as possible in life, so one doesn’t develop all sorts of neuroses and complexes.
“Given the enormity of her jugs—they’re of circus freak-show quality—I have no doubt she’s been used, abused, and misused by men who have an infantile obsession about breasts.
“Of course she insists it’s conservative white males who’ve done all these terrible things to her, when in fact considering the crowd she runs around with, it’s much more likely they’ve been hairy-chested Latin American lovers and men from a certain politically-correct racial group it’s not cool to criticize.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“But the biggest deal is super-sized jugs are gross.
“Back when I was fourteen years old and growing up in the Sandhills of Nebraska, a friend of mine and I used to cruise through them during the middle of the night on weekends. Other kids went and did other things; the two of us preferred to spend the night endlessly coasting the highway under the stars.
“The only town larger than ours was 200 miles west. Between that town and our town there were no service stations, no all-night stores, no towns of more than fifty or a hundred people, nothing.
“It was great; the whole land, the skies, all the stars, were ours.
“But we had to go to the nearest big city—200 miles away, remember--to fill up with gasoline so we could return home.
“In a bustling metropolis of circa 6,000—our town was 3,000—there was just one 24-hour café and service station. The café had a ‘reputation,’ and so we avoided going into it; if we wanted soda or potato chips, we got them at the station.
“One night however, for reasons I now disremember, the two of us—cherubic-looking fourteen-year-old boys, remember—ventured into the café. It was exactly as it was reputed to be, full of loud, raucous, ill-mannered, drunken, overly-tattooed truck drivers and their women, many of whom didn’t look very clean.
“Kids usually didn’t go in there—especially not in the middle of the night—and so everybody turned to stare as we timidly walked in. You could’ve heard a pin drop as we made our way to the counter.
“There was an over-cometicized, big-busted woman wearing a halter-top about six sizes too small for her, barely covering her nipples, sitting at the counter who’d been smooching a guy about 400 pounds and with a leather jacket sporting a Confederate flag. I swear, the make-up on her face was more than an inch thick.
“Just as my friend and I squeezed by her, she turned and hollered to the waitress, ‘two root beers for the boys, please.’
“When turning around, her loose and floppy jugs smacked the two of us in the face, nearly knocking us over.
“There’s few things in life more embarrassing than being slapped in the face by swinging jugs.
“And so the two us grew up leery of big jugs; there was nothing sexually arousing about them.”
to be continued
“Which one was Jugs?” Romeo asked me; “I don’t remember.”
I looked at him. Probably he wouldn’t remember because he’s had so many women he long ago lost track.
Romeo is someone not generally liked around here because he’s kind of arrogant, without any accompanying gifts to balance that flaw. He’s also not very bright. He’s one of these guys too good-looking for his own good, and he’s hung like a horse.
We have very little in common, but are friends because it’s mutually convenient. For him, hanging around with franksolich guarantees him at least a little bit of respectability, and for me, tagging along with him assures me of something novel and exciting, some, uh, rather unusual experiences; one rarely goes womanless when with Romeo.
It’s very true franksolich is a good Catholic boy usually observant of the rules and rites of the Church, but franksolich is human too, and sometimes gets bored.
Romeo is typical of how women idealize men, and how their fantasies about men don’t match their actual expectations. They insist looks don’t matter, but then they pursue only handsome men. They say size doesn’t matter, but then they salivate over, well, men hung like Romeo. They claim they want to be liked for their minds and personalities, but then get all bent out of shape if men don’t use them as toys.
Three-quarters of all problems men have, can be traced to women; what they say they want, and what they actually want, are two entirely different things. They say they want to be admired and respected, but they really only want to be had by a man.
I myself long ago reconciled this problem by not giving a damn.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Romeo, who works for a big cattle feeder, lives in a decrepit old trailer house out in the boondocks.
The plumbing and the electricity inside of it are haphazard, but the bedroom resembles nothing more so than a seraglio, gaudy velvet tapestries covering the walls from ceiling to floor, colorful strobe lights and lava lamps, an 8-track tape player, and a water-bed capacious enough to hold four without anyone bumping into anyone else.
When bored, I hang around Romeo, who in a short time collects two women, and the four of us bounce around on the bed. It’s not a foursome, but rather two couples, neither pair paying any particular attention to what the other pair is doing.
“Oh, now I remember her,” Romeo said, after given certain other details by me.
“Well, you know I’m in no shape to deal with her, and so maybe you can entertain her in my stead, when she’s here?” I suggested.
“I dunno,” Romeo said; “the last time she was here, she wanted to be liked for her brains, but actually used her jugs to get men to have her. I can’t stand women’s libbers who say they want one thing, but really they want another thing.”
to be continued
“You seem rather morose this evening,” she said, as we all were sitting around the barbeque grill in the backyard. My guests were having top-of-the-line steaks and stuff, while I was content with peach yogurt and vanilla ice-cream with skim milk dumped on top.
She and two of her friends are spending the Labor Day weekend here, as part of my ambitious years’-long outreach to those on the other side of the political aisle. In all that time, it hasn’t reached a single Democrat, liberal, or primitive, but one’s compelled to keep trying.
She and I have little in common, and I didn’t know her two friends. They were women who despise men and engage with other women, but no big deal. franksolich gets along with anyone willing to get along with him.
“Well, admittedly, I’m not too happy, but I assure you it has nothing to do with you guys,” I said.
I mentioned the upcoming visit of Jugs.
“Well, why don’t you just have her, and be done with it?” one of the three asked; "surely it's easy enough for men to poke and leave."
“The problem is,” I patiently explained, “is that it’s not possible for me to have her; the mere sight of her oversized jugs immediately unstiffens one. They’re grotesque, not appealing at all.”
“Well, what does appeal to you, in a woman?” another of the three inquired.
“Proportionality, balance,” I replied; “symmetry, all parts of a body being in proper ratios; a small woman should have small jugs, a medium-sized woman should have medium-sized jugs, and a large woman should have large jugs.
“Jugs is only medium-sized, but with those enormous jugs, is w-a-a-a-a-y out of balance.
“It’s too bad because she’s otherwise not half-bad looking.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Well, I think it’s unfair for you to demand a woman have a perfect body,” one of the three complained, “when genetics determines most of it, and besides, men need to like women for their brains and personalities, not their bodies—“
Now wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute, I protested.
“I’m not a Democrat, liberal, or primitive,” I pointed out; “I don’t expect any more from anybody else than what I expect from myself.
“Leaving aesthetics aside because they’re subjective, and concentrating only on structural soundness, I think most, if not all, would agree that I’m balanced, in proportion. I’m a little bit taller than usual, a little bit flatter than usual, a little bit narrower than usual, but every part is pretty much in proportion to the other parts.
“For example, I don’t have a head that’s too large for my body, or fingers that are too short.”
to be continued
Early in the morning, as I supposed no one else would be awake yet, I figured it’d be safe to go into the darkened kitchen and brew some coffee. Unhappily, being deaf, I sometimes make noise without being aware of it, and must’ve in this instance, as behind my back, abruptly the kitchen light sprung on, startling me.
They stared at me. I stared at them.
“Why the cap?” one of the three asked, referring to a knit-cap I was wearing.
Oh, that, I said. “I was wearing the when I was undergoing radiation and chemotherapy, and wanted to hide my falling-out hair. The hair’s growing back, although curly, but I got used to the cap, and feel naked if I’m not wearing it.
“But other than the cap, you’re naked anyway,” she pointed out.
“I know, I know, but I’m just used to the cap.
“I’d picked a cap late in spring because wigs looked fake, and I didn’t want people to look and stare and point, ‘oh, look, that guy’s wearing a wig.’”
“But a winter cap in spring and summer,” she replied; “isn’t that even more freaky than a wig?”
“It beats having people stare at me for another reason,” I said, not wishing to point out it covers up the absence of ears; I’ve never had any, and don’t like being treated as a freak in a circus sideshow.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
When surprised like this, I’ve found that steady, penetrating eye-contact distracts from the exposed rest of me; in fact, there’s been times when visitors go away never having been aware I’d been standing right in front of them bare-ass naked.
Eye-contact’s the trick; it pulls them away from looking at anything excepting one’s face.
But one has to be quick, before the other person’s eyes start wandering below the neck.
It was far too late for that; what’s been seen can’t be unseen. Fortunately, these were women who weren’t interested in men. I didn’t need to be considerate of their sensibilities. It wasn’t as if they were respectable people anyway, so it made no difference if unrestrained maleness offended them or not; if they liked it, fine. If they didn’t, too bad.
“It’s cool,” the one I knew told the others; “he sleeps in the buff.”
My place, my rules, I interrupted; “if I were at your place, I’d follow your rules.
“Here, the rule is, if you want, let it all hang out. We’re way out in the middle of nowhere, nobody to see us.
“It’s a release from the inhibitions one’s compelled to practice in a decent and civilized society.
There’s a great deal that can be said for modesty and decorum, and not offending other people, but sometimes one feels too self-conscious and needs to let go. As I’ve already said, it’s okay because we’re way out in the middle of nowhere.
“And by the way,” I pointed out, “while you’re viewing, please notice the symmetry and balance, each part exactly the right proportion in relation to each of the other parts.
“I’m not demanding any more of Jugs—that she be evenly proportioned—than I am of myself.”
to be continued