Wednesday, April 16, 2003
I wish people would stop asking me if I'm pregnant. I mean first of all, I'm a guy. And then, there's just no way I'd start showing so quickly. Third, when you're thinking about making a comment on my appearance you should ask yourself: is it really that funny(?); do I really think I'm the first person to say such a witty, witty though obvious thing(?); and is it really appropriate for me to make any jokes whatsoever at this point considering that Iraqi kid who got his arms blown off(?). Fourth, it's all water weight so back off. And finally, it's all this girl Keitha's* fault.
See, I've been seeing Keitha for a little bit now and she's into all kinds of, shall we say, weird action, and I, at heart, am a capitulator so, after a couple weeks of her describing how much fun it would be (for her, I guess) to do all these things with (meaning to) me, I capitulated, though it must be said without any enthusiasm.
So. Okay. Well, I could go along with the bondage, I could take the hot wax, I could even stand the fisting (well stand isn't the right word, but I could ease myself out of bed after twelve hours curled up in the fetal position). No, it wasn't until she told me that she wanted to inflate my ball-sack with saline solution, a fetish so outlandish I don't even know how people refer to it, that I got standoffish again. But, having gotten me to go along with everything up 'til that point, and I haven't gone into the half of it, she figured, rightly to my chagrin, that if she kept after me about it I'd give in on this too.
So she'd ask me about it everyday and everyday I'd say no, until:
"Will you do it?" No need by this point for either of us to mention what "it" was.
"I'll get my breast done."
"I like your breasts now."
"You'll like them even more. There'll be more to like."
"I like them so much right now that it would be impossible for me to like them more. I regard your breasts with my maximum capacity for breast appreciation."
"That's so sweet."
"Well, how 'bout..." and here I could tell she was trying to think of some sex-capade we had yet to get to that I'd be into.
"Forget it. We've done everything."
"Everything that I'd be into."
"Not a threesome." It was so obvious I was stunned I hadn't thought of it. But, I recovered, I thought, quite nicely.
"Girl, girl, boy, right?"
"You had something else in mind."
"God no, I mean, no."
"Yeah, I still don't know." She still hadn't been clear on exactly how much liquid we were talking here.
"I'll clean your kitchen."
"In addition to the threesome, right?"
"I'll clean it for two months."
And that was about that. If only I'd known what I was letting myself in for.
Not much later I found myself strapped into the super-sized gyro-wheel that dominated Keitha's bedroom.
"It's for your safety", she said. Neither of us, she assured me with an affection grin, wanted to see any permanent damage befall the family jewels.
"Any permanent damage," I asked.
"Shhh, now," she shushed as she fitted a ballgag into my mouth, "No need to whimper." And with that she gave the gyro-wheel a push flipping me upside down. I didn't see how being upside down making me any safer, but between the blood rushing to my head and the unparalleled ball-shrinkage I was experiencing I wasn't going to argue about it. As Keitha busied herself just out of my sight my anxiety kept increasing as I fretted over what kind of gigantic syringe based horror she was up to.
She came back and knelt down next to my head. Did I mention she was naked too. She's very appealing when she's naked. She held up the syringe she would shortly plunge into my tenderest of regions and smiled a "that's not so bad after all is it" smile. To myself I thought, no that's not so bad after all. I mean the bore of the needle was larger than I would have liked but the barrel itself was slender and not at all the capable of injecting the monstrous volumes of my imagination.
She stood up and inserted the needle into my scrotum. I won't lie to you. It hurt. But, the pain passed soon enough. I can get through this I thought. Then Keitha disappeared again. I wanted to say, can't we just get over this, but of course I couldn't say anything.
I heard the door of her closet swing open and heard the squeak of casters being pushed across the hardwood floor. The four lateral legs and erect pole of an IV stand rolled into view followed by Keitha's bare feet. I lifted my head up as far as it could go. The look on Keitha's face then is probably best described as maniacal. She held a plastic sack of saline solution that was four liters if it was cubic centimeter. I made that muffled keening sound that I'd heard a thousand times in a thousand movies. She hung it from the stand and attached some surgical tubing to it's valve. She looked down at me.
"Get ready for some real fun," she cried. She attached the other end of the tubing to the syringe. She squeezed the bag. I saw stars. My balls inflated like a balloon being rapidly filled with saline solution. I felt them slap heavily and wetly down against my stomach. The pain was exquisite. I passed out.
I was still inverted when I awoke, but the pain was gone. Keitha was passed out on the floor in some kind of post-orgasmic but most likely non-post-coital bliss. I yelled through my gag until she awoke. When she did it was with the sweetest most sastified smile I'd ever seen on woman. Then she broke out laughing.
"Nnghh, nnghh", I said. Through her guffaws she managed to remove the ball-gag.
"What, what," I asked?
"Oh my god," she said, "You look pregnant." Somehow the saline solution had leached out of my ball-sack and settled around my middle. I wished I could pass out again. She flipped me upright and released me. I waddled over to the full-length mirror and collapsed in hysterics. I didn't just look pregnant. I looked way pregnant.
It's not quite a month later and I still look pregnant though the swellings gone down somewhat. I think sleeping in a cocoon of Saran Wrap has helped me sweat a lot of it out and I've never gone to the bathroom so much in my life. Keitha and I are still together and we've had our three-way and she says we can have more. But I still think I'm going to break up with her. As soon as she's discharged her two months of kitchen cleaning. A man can only put up with so much.
*I know, I know it's an awful name. Clearly, her parents Keith and Martha are idiots. It's not Keitha's fault.
Fyrste, 9:02 PM