I sexually imprinted Gerry deep and then, just because I was an asshole that night, I imprinted her deep again twice, just to take her away from the guy she was with, just to piss him off. Just to make a point that I could put her out of business for anybody but me. By the time he broke the bedroom door down it, was too late, I’d taken her mind and body down deep, really deep and fucking drowned her soul.
You’re not supposed to imprint people twice, because it brain-damages them. It’s a crime against nature, they say, to do that to a human being. But like parasitic wasps – nature happens all the time, baby.
Her blue eyes rolled back and did the fade. She was “gone” as we say in the game. Broke. The Sweet Damnation.
“Gone” is what psychologists call “sensory traumatic imprinting”, when you push a person past the sensual input limit the human nervous system can bear. They say God never gives you more pain than you can bear. OK. Maybe God doesn’t, but sex fighters do. It’s what we get the big bucks in the ring and boner pill endorsements on the web to do. It can be pain or it can be pleasure or it can be too much of both, but the key is it has to be too much. When you do that to a female or a male and hold them down there deep, for long enough, something snaps inside. It’s like you drown them. It tears a hole in their ego-identity and that hole needs to be filled up with something fast.
The sweetest thing in all the world, the thing you just live to see, is your opponent on her back when she’s gone over, when he or she is vanquished in a way no one should ever be vanquished. Her eyelids open relaxed and her eyes roll up a little dead-looking and – brother – the lights are out and there’s nobody home. Truly. It doesn’t last long. But that’s when I crawl through the unlocked window of her psyche and plant myself deep inside there. And what do I do with that person’s soul? Whatever I want. I own it, baby. I won it fair and square, didn’t I?
It’s a short window, just a few seconds before the brain fixes itself, but you can fill that window with whoever or whatever you want and there’s nothing the person can do about it. You can go through rehab if you get nailed just the once, and once is all the fight ring rules allow, but if someone imprints you twice, just bang-bang while you’re stuck in the zone, like say behind a locked bedroom door, Hello Gerry, well it can’t be fixed. Ever. It becomes who you are after that. You’ll even go through the hell of withdrawal if the person who double-dog nailed you doesn’t give you some regular loving. That’s a mighty fine thing, the addiction from a double imprinting. You can do a lot of stuff with that. And guys who know how, they pull in the long cream all kinds of nasty ways.
What I am, I owe a lot to Case. He’s gay, but it doesn’t influence him. He was a champ in the Pan European Regional, but dropped out after a bad night when he almost lost it. He never talks about it. He could have gone private, driving rich old fruit faggots out of their skulls in hotel rooms for more money then he’d get in the ring. But he won’t be anybody’s bitch. You can be his bitch. He won’t be your bitch. He trains me for the sex fighting, and the martial arts comes from another teacher. It’s complex shit.
“Okay, Doc. Let’s get this going.” I’ll need all the time I can get to settle down before going out there. I hate this part. It hurts like hell.
“Ready for your Shot, Macko?” says the doctor. “Ready for some fun?”
“Bring it on, Doc.” I try to sound cheerful. I’m not.
Case brings over the phallus sheath. I’m not hard yet, but I’m about to be very very very hard. Gerry’s not allowed to handle my dick directly, not since she tried to bite it off. Case does this. The penis sheath is made from soft goat-kid leather, so that I can barely feel it when it’s on. It’s black and has these happy little tassels on it. It’s a lot like what male strippers used to wear in clubs. Case slips my limp dick into it and pulls it up snug with a lot of empty space hanging below. It won’t be empty long. Without the Peanut Butter Shot I’m nothing special, just the standard six like most guys, though women say I’m pretty thick in the girth. With the Peanut Butter Shot I get a good seven inches of purple steel to ride. Not that it matters, that’s not what the Peanut Butter Shot is about. I have to wear the sheath because I’m medically certified not to have ejaculated in three days; that would get me fucking disqualified and most likely end up castrated in a dark alley if the mob has any money in this fight, and they always do. No, the sheath is there to protect my fighting weapon till I’m in the ring, but also to protect it from me. From trying to get myself off after the Shot hits. To keep from fucking everything in sight to make myself come or more likely trying to rape the living shit out of poor Gerry.
After my cock is settled in the sheath and buckled in the back behind my balls, Case takes my gloves off and folds them and puts them in a wooden box and passes it to Gerry. I take my place on the bench. The bench has a hole cut in the middle like an outhouse seat, where I lie on my belly and my balls and my dick dangle down in space without touching anything. I stretch out my hands and Case secures them to the cast-iron bench legs, nice and tight with these padded steel handcuffs. The kinky restraints are pure safety. They’re to keep me from trying to kill any sexually mature male in my territorial reach two minutes from now. Which would ruin my hands. Not to mention what horrors would happen to Gerry next. It’s some Shot, that Peanut Butter Shot.
“Bottoms up,” says Doc. What happens now is something people who don’t know shit about anything make jokes about. They think this is fun, and don’t they wish they could do this. Fuck. Even sex fighters hate what happens next, it’s the most fucking humiliating thing in the world. Though I have to admit, when you see a woman fighter get her Shot, well, there’s just something about being in the presence of a woman who’s restrained because she’s bitch ass screaming crazy in heat for the next few minutes, mister, it sticks in your imagination, I can tell you that. You can actually smell it in the air, the way a male dog does. When she gives you that look and sticks her ass way up, man, it makes you want to go over and sniff her butt.
Doc takes a short little syringe from the black case and uncaps the needle. He swabs my right ass cheek in the deep muscle part with alcohol on a cotton ball and sticks the needle in. That’s not the Peanut Butter Shot. That’s just to numb me up for the Peanut Butter Shot. He rubs it, smacks it. “Feel that?”
“No.”
Now comes the shot.
They call it the Peanut Butter Shot, because its brown and pasty and goes in like thick goo, like something you’d put on your toast. It’s a cocktail of genetically engineered hormones and ketotestosterones in a concentrated synthetic androsteroid base and some kind of holy miracle shit, God knows what. The insane bastards who invented this hellacious gunk, they’re fucking geniuses. The material and formula have to be guarded like plutonium. Or the formula for Coca-Cola. They have to keep it under control or you’d have kids brewing it up in their basements and ass raping their mothers.
I feel the pressure squeezing me as it goes in like someone jabbing my butt with a sharp pencil. He takes the fat syringe with the thick needle away and shows it to me so I know it’s all in. I’m starting to feel it. Now there’s a big goose egg on my ass, where the gunk is piled up. Doc Corman leans in on his palms, pressing the heels of his hands down on the lump to mash it in and work down to where the blood is.
“I can do that!” Gerry hollers. She jumps out from behind Case and shoves, motherfucking shoves Doc Corman off me.
“Hey hey!” yells Doc and Case at the same time. Then her hands are on me, pushing and squashing at the lump in my ass. And suddenly her hand is down below and she’s squeezing my limp dick like choking a dead bird.
“Let me do it!” She’s gonzo, junkie nuts, suddenly clawing at my dick with both hands trying to yank the sheath off. She bends down and bites me hard on the ass.
They grab her arms and she’s screaming her head off and I’m screaming my head off and we’re all screeching our heads off, it’s a fucking monkey house in here. Case is whispering shi
t to her and holding her arms behind her back in a judo lock. My ass feels like hell.
Aw fuck. Aw baby. Yeah. There it is.
Hey. Hey. Now it’s . . . I gotta . . . I just gotta . . .
One Mississippi . . . Two Mississippi . . .
Bingo. Limp as lo mein to railroad spike in two seconds flat. Like getting zapped in the nuts with an electric cattle prod.
Leaping lizards . . . I’m so fucked up.
Aw Jesus Christ, my balls, they’re on fire. “Gerry!” My eyes are burning, my face is twitching, I can’t think right. I can’t see right. Holy shit. I’m so fucking ready. I’m so motherfucking – oh God;
“Gerry! You whore! You’re getting your ass fucked. Gimme your fuck! Gimme it! Get over here and get your ass fucked! Do it! I command you! I order you! You fucking cunt – get your fuck over here – get your fucking fuck the fuck over here you fucking cunt . . .”
“Whoa whoa whoa!” Case is still holding down the only piece of ass in the room, a very dangerous place to be right now. Gerry’s fighting to get at me and get my dick in her and I’m yelling like a caveman and yanking the padded cuffs until they dig into my wrists. My hands are turning blue I’m pulling so hard but all I can think is I want to spear Gerry’s asshole on my dick all the way in and out the other side of her navel. I want Gerry’s cunt for my dinner fucking leaping lizards – “Gerry!” My skin is turning red like a nuclear sunburn. “Case! I’m gonna kill you and skull fuck you, you fag bastard!” Everything starts to turn grey for a minute and I can feel my cock almost ready to burst. Then the shot starts to settle down. My balls are still on fire but I’m a little less out of my skull by the second. The room is silent except for the sound of people breathing.
“You coming down, Mack?” says Case. His cock is pretty up there in his gym shorts too. You can make out it’s standing at attention. This does stuff to him too. He’s had the shot a dozen times in his fighting days. None of this is new to him. Once you taste the shot you never forget how it feels.
I flop down on the bench and let out a groan. “Fuckin’ A.”
“Take a minute, Mack,” says Doc. “We got time. Be a good boy now.”
I lie there with my eyes closed, feeling my hot meat aching down below. Feeling the jazz and the jizz and the fizz and the tingle and the jive and the jingle just under my skin. I wish these guys would get the fuck out all but Gerry. I want Gerry under my belly right now. I’m ready to fuck the moon.
“You going to behave?” says Doc.
“You watch me behave,” I growl. He lets Case decide when to let me up. Case is reading me like a pro, and he’ll know when I’m out of the danger zone.
We all hang around a few minutes, then Case lets go of Gerry, and watches her a second. She’s out of it and she’s got the shakes. I swear to God I can smell her cunt from over here. He comes up to me, and puts his hand on my neck, feeling my pulse and counting. “Let me hear you breathe.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slow. He takes his hand off my neck and unlocks the cuffs. “Almost time to go,” he says.
I get on my feet, watery in the knees, breathing deep. Case is holding a loose fighting stance, watching me. I can smell Gerry. I can literally smell her. My penis sheath is standing up and it doesn’t even bob around it’s so damn hard. I could drive it through a brick wall and that’s just what I feel like doing.
Gerry is tallish and thin, with the jumpy eyes of a junkie. Wasted. Both wrists have shiny horizontal scars going across them. She was a hot piece with nice tits and a sweet round ass when I met her the first time. Now she’s this.
“Gerry.”
She shakes her head wildly. She’s mad as hell. Mad at me. Mad at the world. Most of all, mad at herself.
“Gerry.”
She’s standing her ground, but everything coming off her is going right off the bugshit meter. There’s only one window in the locker room and Case quietly steps around to get between the window and her and waits.
“Gerry.”
“No,” she shakes her head again. “You can’t make me.”
I pitch my voice a very particular way, one that took me years to learn. It has a way of slipping inside somebody’s will if you do it just right. “Come here.”
Like a bird in a snake-trance she hobbles a step forward and stops. “No.”
“Come here bitch.” I pump my hips a little and the penis sheath bobs stiffly. “Look what I got for you. Nice piece of candy. Come here.”
Her eyes are wide and getting that empty look guys get when they’re watching a good stripper. She’s holding her hands up defensively in front of her, grabbing her T-shirt and clenching it and probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
Feet stanced slightly apart. Breathing hard. Nostrils dilating. Ears shifted slightly upwards. Her clit is going to be swelling and I can see the nubs of her nips against the T-shirt. Her anger, her self-hate is driving her crazy, desire and pride. She knows what she wants; she just hates herself for wanting it so very bad. I’ll have to help her.
I move towards her and she looks up at me with a kind of pitiful, pleading hope. “Baby.” She croaks. “I want a baby.”
I hold out my hand, palm up. Her hands come away from her T-shirt. Her eyes close dreamily. She steps forward and puts my palm under her limp breast. I step close and caress her breast, like consoling a beloved, worn-out old pet. She lifts her T-shirt, showing me her chest and I caress her bare breast gently, pinching the tip of the nipple and her mouth falls open.
I feel the urge in me to be cruel to her. To do something unnecessary to her. That’s the feeling I want. I need that feeling, but I need it for the ring.
“Did you ever love me?” she whispers.
“Don’t be stank, skank.” I take my hand away and leave her there. She sags against a locker and we all watch the steam go out of her as she sinks to the floor in a heap. “Fucker . . .” she whispers. “I hate you, you fucker.”
I grin all around. Nobody grins back. “I’d say I’m ready now.”
The doctor gets his stuff packed. Case has his kit and ice bucket. As we head for the door, Gerry whams her fist against a steel locker door. We all turn. Those bomb-crater eyes are fixed on my dick. “What, Gerry? What now? I got work.”
“When you get back, can we . . . ? Even just a little while?”
“Fuck off, Ger.” I turn to go.
“I need it!”
“I said fuck off.”
“I hope she breaks you!” she screams. “I hope she breaks you out there, so you know what it’s like! You fucker! You sick fuck!” She wrenches the locker open and throws the first thing she grabs, a bar of soap. It bounces off the ceiling. “I hope that woman fucking kills you!”
I blow her a kiss. “Even if she does, that won’t help you, baby.” We move out into the hall, the door hissing shut behind us.
The walk down the hall is always a hard time for me. It’s a minefield, a mind-fuck. It’s the flight of the Valkyries. It’s the most serious shit there is because you have too much time to think and thinking gets you fucked up. In a little while me and this other person, we’re going to come back down this hall again, but only one of us is going to be the same. The other one is going to be seriously different. One of us is going to get totally mind-raped by the one who gets to go on being normal a little while longer. One of us is going to come out the other’s bitch. When you think about that metaphysical shit, sweet Jesus. You have to respect that shit.
Three fucking years. That’s right, three fucking years, two of them as champ. Nobody goes three years and the game only ends one way. It ends up with you as somebody’s bitch. Soon the numbers just start to scare me. Women scare the shit out of me sometimes, the thought of being some bitch’s boner pony. Fuck that shit. Falling in love is a business, it’s hustle and the companies who make a million off me pushing boner pills, they know how to hustle. But this. Fuck. I mean like – fuck.
This fight, it’s not a fight. This fuck, it’s no
t a fuck. The tough ain’t even about tough. This is not a natural act, what we do, no. Males fighting over a female is a natural act. Conquering the female and cooling your dick off inside her, that’s a natural act. A woman being taken down by a man is the most natural thing there is. That’s just evolution and shit. But this thing we do, mind-fucking them. That’s not a natural thing. That’s the weirdest shit there is, and that’s why people can’t get enough and the sports biz people have to keep finding ways to push it up a notch every time. Fuck, even throwing people to lions in the Colosseum was a natural act compared to this. Lions like to eat people.
I think the walk, it’s like death, and I ain’t talking shit. It’s like death because it’s like being nowhere and between everything. It’s not the locker. It’s not the ring. It’s concrete walls passing by. It’s the world telling me, this is who you are for right this moment. You been around thirty years and change and this is what you got to show. Like my life passing in front of me. But then my dick is calling my name a good seven inches ahead of me. The dick knows what it wants. Trust the dick. And then there’s this light at the end of the tunnel.
And where the light is – glory.
The hall empties into the arena entrance and I walk down the bull-run into a blaze of noise and light and total ape-shitness. Case slaps me on the ass. It’s like I’ve just been born proper.
The bull run that leads from the hall to the centre fighting ring of the Boston Brigham Arena is lined with riot barriers to hold back the crowd from tearing pieces off me. People are holding up signs, condoms, underwear, any shit to get my attention. People waving cell-phone cameras at me. The women, they get me zinged. They’re waving their panties at me. Their bras. Their bare tits. My natural tribute. They’re looking at my dong in the black sheath as it goes by and I step a little flat-footed to make my weapon wave to the crowd, hello ladies. Do you love me? These are all the cheap seat mooks, crowding the barriers, trying to get in some touch. Trying to cop a feel of the glory. The air is fucking rank with pussy. Jesus Christ. Fucking pheromones. A girls’ locker room, a women’s fuckatorium. Women screaming, shaking their tits at me. The cult of the masculine. And I am the god of the Bullshit, the great Dionysian god of Pure Stiff Dick Bullshit – Bananarama.
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