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
