franksolich gets a battery-operated athletic supporter

[franksolich]

Note: This is dedicated to the rabid terrapin primitive, in recompense for my not having completed the story about his visit here to the isolated remote Sandhills of Nebraska.

Events sometimes outrace our ability to record them, and that’s what’d happened there.

This is not a serial; it's the whole entire complete story.

As usual, this is a work of fiction, although it’s based upon real-life people and real-life experiences; I don’t have enough imagination to make these things up.

RATED “R”

It was during the middle of a rainy night out here in the Sandhills of Nebraska, when I was dreaming of playing polo with Clare Boothe Luce, Evangeline Booth, and Quentin Roosevelt, that I was abruptly blasted awake by the light being turned on.

Being deaf, I can’t hear people, but being sighted, my attention can be gotten by that violence.

I jerked up, and saw the women’s-libbers from Lincoln crowding the doorway to the bedroom.

They’d been here a few weeks previously, making a film to be submitted in a women’s film festival about eight weeks from now; one of those “art” films, a film noir, black-and-white, no sound.  It was “X”-rated, about an angry women’s-libber venting her rage and frustration against the male race, in which she inflicted her bestial sadistic sexual tendencies on three hapless men.

After the filming, she'd settled down, and the two of us had had a great old time.

I was covered with a sheet, and even though all seven chicks had seen me on other occasions hanging it, I wasn’t up to showing myself, and so remained covered.  However, they did know what was going on, and the leader of the she-women laid down on the bed beside me, putting a hand underneath the sheet and rubbing my bare chest, and then further down.

We sucked face, and I unbuttoned her blouse, being gratified to see that she wasn’t wearing a brassiere.  As I embarked upon my main objective, getting her out of her pants, her cellular telephone rang, and she chitchatted as I sent two exploratory fingers inside of her.

I had no idea who she was talking to, or about, and then when she hung up the telephone and began talking to the other jugs surrounding the bed, I didn’t catch any of that either, being greatly heartened that she wasn’t as dry up in there as she’d been the last time.

- - - - - - - - - -

Apparently since she and I were doing our thing, the other six wanted to do theirs too; they’d already divested themselves of their tops--not a single brassiere underneath, just firm, properly-sized jugs, so nice and arousing--but then when they pulled off their pants and began shoving down their panties, I objected.

“No,” I said; “it’s okay that they have their tops off and jiggle their jugs around, but they should keep their panties on, as yours is the only one I want to play with.”

“But they want to have fun with each other; you forget what we are.”

Yeah, I admitted; “that’s true.  Maybe they can go into the living room and do all their stuff bare-ass naked, but if they’re doing it within my seeing, I might get distracted, and pay less attention to you.  I‘m a one-woman man; I‘d just as soon give my full attention to you.”

“Okay girls,” she said; “go at it, but keep your panties on as long as you‘re in the same room as us.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We embraced again, myself rubbing against her as we resumed sucking face.

“We made the final version of the film yesterday,” she told me; “it’s all ready to go now.  I would’ve brought a copy with me if you had something here to show it on, but trust me, it’s good.”

Well, I said, positioning myself, “I guess I’ll see it at the women’s-libber film festival in Lincoln in a couple of months.  Movies aren’t my thing anyway; I can wait.

“How’d we all come out?” I asked, referring to the performances of Romeo and the bashful cowboy.

“Oh, them,” she said; “in the final cut, they’re mostly cameos or background shots.  You’re the star.

“We had high hopes for Romeo, seeing how large he is, but the guy’s so full of himself he came across as a fake, all strut-and-flash and no character.  And the cowboy, who’s certainly good-looking in a cowboy sort of way, was too insecure, too timidly hesitant, and it showed.  You’re the star.”

Being vain, I had to ask.  “What was the best part of me?”

“It’s the part that made the ’theme’ of the whole movie,” she said.  “And to think, it wasn’t planned, it wasn’t scripted; it just happened.  There’s a 1:47-length close-up of your face, as you desperately and frenetically tried pulling the chastity-belt off of me.

“That was awesome, the way you--the expressions on your face--acted so frantic, so fevered and frenzied, you wanted to get in there so bad, and were willing to even break your fingers to do that.

“Your agony was palpable.”

Actually, that was real, not an act, but I kept my mouth shut.

“As I said,” she continued, “it made the whole movie, and it’s bound to be a hit with all the man-hating she-women at the women’s film festival in December--’see, men are selfish pigs; they want only one thing out of a woman, and they’ll go to any ends to get it.

“‘And ha-ha-ha to this pig, because he‘s not going to get it.’”

 

- - - - - - - - - -

As I was playing with her down there, she lit a cigarette and said, “you know, I showed the raw cuts of the film to a professional film producer, and he was impressed.  He thinks you have what it takes to become a big, a really big, porn star.  He thinks you could be bigger than Harry Reems ever was.

“I have his business card; he’s from southern California, and totally legitimate.  He says if you’re ever interested, call him, and he’ll run a screen-test on you.”

Yeah, right, I said, as I folded her legs, and kneeling in front of her, began inning-and-outing.

“Harry Reems was hung like a horse, while I’m merely proportioned for my height and size--”

“Well, that’s part of it,” she insisted; “you’re just s-o-o-o-o the right size, where you neither intimidate by too-bigness or invite scorn by too-littleness--”

“What’s the other part of it?” I interrupted.

“It’s what I like most about you,” she answered, “and being a woman who prefers doing it with other women, you’d better consider it a high compliment.

“It’s your confidence; your boldness, your audacity, your balls, your insouciant saunter, your utter nonchalance, the way you can walk stark naked right in front of somebody with casual indifference, as if nothing at all’s out of the ordinary--”

“Oh, but it’s not natural,” I pointed out, still poking her.  “It’s self-taught testicular fortitude.

“You know the situation; I’m deaf; I can’t hear.  And I’ve always slept without any clothes on.

“Despite that late at night’s the only time I’m inappropriately unattired, sometimes people do pop in without my knowing it--until I’m face-to-face with them, of course.  The worst is when I’m leaning over the counter in the kitchen, making coffee, and suddenly, oops, someone I had no idea was there, taps me on the shoulder.

“But God’s been with me thus far--because it’s so late at night when old people, respectable women, and children are sleeping, I’ve only ever been caught by other guys, or by women not known for sensibilities or virtue.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She got up and walked over to the dresser, on which she’d put her purse when coming into the room.  Damn, I thought as I watched her in all her natural glory; it’s too bad such a body has to be wasted almost exclusively on other women, when men could get so much more out of it. 

She took out a small box, and tossed it to me, the box landing on my stomach.

“It’s just a gag gift, really,” she said, “from Dollar General, the world’s biggest source of bad-taste merchandise.”

I opened the box.  It was, obviously, an athletic supporter, a jock-strap.

At least it was plain ordinary white, instead of some fluorescent rainbow colors.  But it seemed rather bulky, and there was a small shrink-wrapped package along with it.  A miniature battery, much like what one puts into wrist-watches.

“What’s this for?” I asked her.

“It’s to power the jock,” she said.

I looked at her as if she were Bozo from Outer Space.

“A battery-operated jock-strap?

“What the fu….dge does one do with a battery-operated jock-strap?”

“It’s a lighted jock,” she said.  “It’s got a bunch of miniature pin-head-sized multi-colored lights in it, that sparkle and glitter and blink.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“I don’t do costumes--or toys or gadgets,” I reminded her; “I’m just into the totally naked body, no accoutrements, no added features.”

“Oh, put it on, for at least just a few minutes,” she said, “so you could show it off for the girls.”

Bashful, I put it on, and walked with her into the kitchen.  The other jugs had started off in the living room, but then migrated into the kitchen, as it was a cold night.  Despite the austerity of the kitchen, on cold nights, with the coffee percolating, something on top of the stove cooking, and something inside the oven baking, one naturally seeks this haven.  The other jugs were completely naked now, and prancing around flaunting their stuff at each other.

Now I felt really embarrassed, being the only one with any clothes on.

The other jugs glanced at the blinking multi-colored lights on the jock-strap, and shook their heads.

No, they agreed; “he looks better without, with nothing on him.  That just looks silly.”

Relieved, I pulled it off and tossed it through the open doorway into the bedroom.

the end

[vesta111]

Darn but I welcome dreams of small elephants wearing T Shirts and dancing about in my dreams. 

Not so much of a 6 foot 4 "   middle aged man with no ears to coming in  wagging his tallawacker at all..