Author's Comment: This is another attempt to take a tired old plot idea and spruce it up with a little humor and a LOT of satire. So, if you're tired of reading the same old wimp-husband story, or a wife-sharing story, try this one on for size. If you actually get off on those kinds of stories, I give you fair warning that this one might not do it for you. And for those of you who are tired of stories about dense blond women ... here's one about a man instead.
You know, life is pretty strange sometimes. There's a song - I don't remember who wrote it, or sang it, but I hear it on the radio now and then on the oldies station. Anyway, in this song is a line that says "You don't always get what you want ... but sometimes you get what you need". Or something like that. I used to like that song, because it gave me hope that, if you wish for something, sometimes you get it. That's what happened with Brandy, anyway.
Brandy's my wife. When I met her and she agreed to go out with me, I thought I was the luckiest guy on the planet. If you look up "blond bombshell" in the dictionary, her picture should go there. They probably reference her in the entry for "brick shithouse" too. Anyway, the way I met her was like this:
I was just walking by Grabof's, which is a kind of combination corner store, gas station, and newspaper stand. They sell Greyhound tickets there too, so the bus stops there. There was a bus parked by the curb and I was walking by it when this woman pulled her suitcase out of the storage area underneath the bus, and turned around to leave. The suitcase kind of swung out away from her body due to centrifugal force and, she more or less slammed it into my balls.
Or I walked into it. It depends on who you ask. Of course my story was that she attacked me. I was about the only one who thought that, which is sort of an important part of this story. That's because this story is about judgement, and its role in making decisions, and how that can affect whether you get what you WANT, or what you NEED.
And I'm the king of making bad decisions. I didn't know that then, but I've learned it since. I was a loser, even if I didn't know it.
I've made bad decisions all my life. I think it was genetic, because my parents were both losers too. Not that that was so horrible. In a little town like Wilton, with a population of only a couple of thousand, and no real industry to speak of, there's a lot of call for losers. I mean there's only maybe thirty or forty positions where a real go-getter is actually required, so not everybody can be a mover and shaker. You need a bunch of losers in a situation like that. Somebody needs to buy all the used cars, and serve the fries and clean the motel rooms and do all that stuff that nobody actually thinks about setting out to do as a career. You just kind of get sucked into it, and if you don't have the skills, or education, or the drive to find something better, you just sort of survive the way things are.
Me? I was the kid who got slightly lower than average grades, and didn't play any sports, and had acne so bad I didn't even think about asking a girl out on a date. I was blond, which I thought was good, but my ears stuck out way far, which kind of cancelled that out in my own mind. I never got in a fight, and didn't have any hobbies other than being a member of the Crawly County Thespian Society. Well ... I had one other hobby. That was beating off. THAT, I excelled at. And my imagination wasn't bad, at least as far as things sexual went. I could work up the strangest situations in my imagination, and I got laid in all of them. By the time I was seventeen I had fucked all my mom's friends, their daughters, the entire cheerleading squad, every female movie star I had ever seen, most of the women in the catalogues that showed them wearing bras and panties, and, of course, the women in all my dad's Playboys. Don't get me wrong ... I only fucked them in my imagination ... but to me ... that was just as good as the real thing. That's because I was completely convinced that my penis would never touch a real live woman in any way, shape or form. It just could not possibly happen.
My dad is probably the source of my loser genetic material. My mom was a pretty normal looking woman. She had big breasts, that I fantasized about a lot, but never got to see. I hugged her long past the age when most boys continue to hug their mothers, simply because I got to press my chest against those mams.
As I write this story, I'm ten years older, and I know, at least in a cerebral kind of way, that I could have had a normal sex life back then if I'd have just given it a shot. The point is that I used some pretty poor judgement to make my decisions back then. They were generally bad ones. I made decisions based on what I wanted ... not what I needed. I wanted to squirt. I couldn't find a girl who would help me with that, so I invented one in my imagination. I was happy with her, she was happy with me (of course) and that was great.
I got what I wanted.
Of course, it wasn't what I needed. What I needed was the courage to ask some girls out, crash and burn a few times, get a couple of real kisses along the way, neck and eventually score for real. But I didn't do that, because I didn't think I could. I made decisions on what I thought reality was about. Imagine that. A fifteen year old thinking he knew enough about reality to make a decent decision.
Anyway, you get the drift.
When I got out of school, still single, still a virgin, and still unkissed, I opted for what I thought I could actually do. That was work at the feed mill. How intelligent do you have to be to shovel grain, and sweep floors? The machinery is all automated, so the most smarts you need are to know which button to push when you want something to happen. It's a dead end job. A loser job.
I was perfectly suited for it.
And, because everybody else quit eventually and went on to bigger and better things, in three years I eventually ended up as the manager of the front end. The front end is where trucks come in and dump their grain. You have to be able to read the scales, and take grain samples (automated) and read the results. On a tough day, there's a clog in the grate, and you have to go out and poke it with a stick. It didn't take any brain power to do the job, which left me lots and lots of time to fantasize about things. I know now that I lived more or less a life of complete fantasy back then.
So you understand now ... right? I was a loser. You have to know this so you'll understand what eventually happened.
So there I am, walking along, and Brandy slams her suitcase into my balls. I fall on the ground and moan and groan and thrash around.
Brandy, of course, was horrified. Most everybody else was laughing. They all knew me, and what a loser I was. I had met their expectations for the day by walking into a speeding suitcase and attempting to emasculate myself. They would probably have approved if I'd succeeded.
Besides, they only paid attention to my writhing, moaning body for a few seconds. Then they paid attention to Brandy.
How to describe Brandy? Hmmmm. I already used the vernacular that is commonly used to describe beautiful women. And I don't know her cup size, like all those other guys do who write stories for the internet. She was just a fucking babe, with all this blond hair, and tits you could go to sleep on, like a pillow, and a pussy that she shaved and that got so slippery when she was turned on that you could almost hurt yourself, sliding around in it. I mean it's a good thing she wasn't a guy, because she got so wet and slippery that if she was a guy you could put an eye out just trying to lick her slit ... except that if she was a guy she wouldn't have a slit to lick ... but...
Oh fuck! See what I mean? I'm such a loser I can't even think up a good analogy.
Anyway, I was lying there, about to puke, and this vision of loveliness was bent over me, and her soft hands were stroking my face and she was babbling about was I OK, and telling me she was sorry and what could she do to make things better and so on.
I don't know exactly what I said. When you feel like your balls are dripping off your body like candle wax, you don't pay attention to what you say. But it was probably something like "Just fucking get out of my life!"
When your balls are mangled and hanging by a string, you also don't enunciate all that well, I guess. What she heard was something like: "Just get me up and be my wife!"
So she tried to pull me to a standing position, which isn't that easy when the guy is trying to maintain a fetal position, but she got me there, hunched over, and got me into Grabof's onto a stool while Alicia, the waitress, wandered over and wanted to know what was wrong with me.
Instead of telling her, Brandy ordered me a Coke.
Now what the fuck was that all about? Are women so clueless that they think a guy with busted balls can be all fixed up by taking in a little caffeine?
Anyway, by the time Alicia got there with the thing I felt a little better, and I actually WAS thirsty, so I drank the Coke through the straw sticking up out of it.
You have to understand here that Grabof's was an old time soda fountain, where they mixed their own syrup with fizzy water, and Old Mr. Grabof liked a stout glass of Coke, so that's how he had the mixing thingy set. You just haven't had a Coke unless you've had one at Grabof's. It'll get you on your toes and bright eyed in nothing flat. You might be a little mush-mouthed, what with all that extra syrup coating your teeth and paralyzing your cheeks and all, but you'll be very alert.
.... There is more of this story ...