Thursday, April 20, 2006

What's Your Story?

I know you've got a bad date story you've been hiding so c'mon, cough it up! Send it to us at or leave it as a comment on this post.

The Crush

Editors Note:Thankyou to the fair young lass who sent us this romantic tale, but be forewarned,                                                               
it deals with adult themes (doing "it") and some kinda bizarre references so if you're
easily offended don't read it.

I’ll never forget the time I was almost killed by Mr. Kentucky. We
were college students, living in the same apartment complex. I was a
brand new freshman; he was a few years older. I don’t know exactly
when he got his bodybuilding title. When I met him, he was no longer
competing, but still had the massive chest and muscles.

We didn’t have a lot in common. Our relationship was based on
proximity and common complaints.

The apartment complex we lived in was one of those low budget hovels
favored by students. All of the apartments came furnished in a style
that could be considered world class -- assuming you always stay at
Motel 8. Everyone had the same living room suite, called a suit.
(This was the South.) The sofa and chairs were made of dark stained
wood and cheap foam cushions covered in scratchy plaid fabric. The
bedroom furniture was worse -- a pressboard dresser and a twin bed with
a mattress so soft that every morning I woke up lying in body sized
dent. I was barely 100 pounds at the time.

The piece de resistance was a television, bolted to a pole, permanently
planted in the living room floor. Brown shag carpeting full of fleas
completed the homey scene.

In such lavish surroundings, you can see how important the television
was. Sometimes escapism is the best thing a place can offer. One
night my TV wasn’t working and neither was Mr. Kentucky’s. Adversity
brought us together.

He wasn’t really even my type, this mountain of a man from the
mountains. I like ‘em short and dark. He was tall and blonde. But he
had those big bizarre muscles; and I’ve always had a hot spot in my
heart for freaks.

I guess everybody likes to think that their lover is one of a kind.
There is an inherent uniqueness in each person’s personality. And I
love it when a man isn’t afraid to be different, when he chooses to be
his own man.

But for a real kick, there’s nothing quite like a man whose uniqueness
is physical. Maybe it’s because I think of him as being extra tough, a
true survivor. Life is hard enough when you look like everyone else.
When you look significantly different from everyone else, you have an
even greater challenge. I guess you could call being physically
different a handicap. But to me, it’s more like a golfer’s handicap --
a little extra challenge given for being a better player.

I know I’m not alone in this feeling. There are plenty of magazines
and websites for devotees of amputees. The hugely obese have their own
fanclubs, too. An albino friend told me that she gets hit on all the
time by men who want to experience “going beyond blonde.” And although
I have no personal experience, but I’ve always suspected that a blind
person’s heightened sense of touch must translate well in bed. (Not to
mention how carnally liberating it would be to never have to worry
about how you look!)

I once was in a class with a really good looking guy whose mother must
have taken Thalidomide. His arms were incomplete. While his biceps
were normal (in fact, they were very nice), his forearms were maybe
eight inches long and sort of tapered down, ending not with a hand, but
with a single finger. It was a boring class, and I passed a lot of the
time fantasizing about what he could do with those arms!

While Mr. Kentucky was a self-made freak, his body was still very
compelling. The tops of his arms were bigger than my thighs. His
breasts were bigger than mine, too, although they were hard and solid.
I didn’t know much about bodybuilding at the time; and I knew nothing
of the drugs that often go with it. I thought that if a guy was
willing to work so hard at enlarging his arms and legs, he must really
put a lot of effort into building up his favorite muscle.

I’ve since done some reading about the whole bodybuilding fetish. I
now know that the love muscle is the least important when it comes to
bulking up. In fact, it not only looks smaller against an overbuilt
body, but can actually shrink if the guy uses steroids.

I was bored, I was horny and I guess I was mostly curious. So when Mr.
Kentucky put on the moves, I was ready. We ended up in his apartment,
which looked just like mine, but messier. And we ended up in his bed,
which was just like mine, but with a bigger dent. And that’s when the
trouble started.

I was expecting kielbasa and he was serving a cocktail weenie. Hey,
I’m open minded. I could handle it. The problem was, in the dark and
amid the bulk, I couldn’t find it. So to make things easier, he
climbed on top of me. They call it the missionary position. And soon
I praying.

Between his huge body and the mushy bed, I couldn’t move. But he could
sure move, and he did. He got into a position where his weight was
totally against my chest. At first I thought about the fact that he
was squishing me back into an AA cup size. Then it dawned on my
increasingly foggy mind that he was collapsing my lungs. And as I was
trying to gasp for air, he thought I was getting really turned on.

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. I
didn’t see any home movies. All I remember is thinking that it was an
embarrassing way to go. This was that old joke turned into reality --
He thought I was cumming; I knew I was going. And as he pounded away,
I learned that death by sex was not as glamorous as it sounds.

Thank god I watched The Wild Kingdom. Somewhere in the last remaining
threads of consciousness, I realized I needed to play dead. I had
already stopped breathing anyway, so it wasn’t a stretch of my acting
ability. I just stopped trying to get any air and lay very still.
Fortunately, he wasn’t big on afterplay. As soon as I seemed done, he
rolled right off of me.

My chest hurt, my throat hurt, and I ached just about everywhere but
where a woman wants to ache after sex. Mr. Kentucky fell asleep
without ever realizing that he had just about rocked me into the big
sleep. I was out of there as soon as I’d caught my breath.

Two days later, the apartment building management sent someone around
to fix our televisions. Things were back to normal. We’d survived
life without TV. No one breathed a bigger sigh of relief than me.