Archive-name: Solo/fumble.txt
Archive-author: Dats Him
Archive-title: Fumble


  Men are basically lazy. Let's face it, who do you think invented the 
remote control for the television? It was a married guy who didn't have 
any kids to change the channel. We're also not the most patient of God's 
creatures. How many guys out there have, at one time or another, wanted 
a pocket knife while trying to take your girlfriend's or wife's bra off? 
Especially the ones with the hidden front clasps which, by the way, I 
believe are also used to secure the engines to the wings of a Boeing 
747. Most of us become grunting animals with a sports game on the 
television in a bar too. Hell, if it weren't for the beer and car 
commercials, we'd probably piss in our pants before a televised game was 
over. As it is, I've seen some guys do just this, only because they 
didn't want to miss any of the action.
  Also, God forbid that a rational thought ever enter our head while we 
have a hard-on. I'm not really sure, but I think this is the criteria 
Catholic's use to elect a new Pope. I don't mean they pick a candidate 
who can still think with a hard-on, although this in itself would be a 
miracle, but that the new pontiff must be past the age of even getting a 
hard-on!
  Where's all this leading to? Regretfully and humiliatingly, I'm trying 
to work up the courage to tell you about the first time I ever had a 
climax with a female was present.
  Notice, I said 'female present'! She, or in my case the three of them, 
didn't share in this experience. They only watched. As a reasonably 
normal and always horny teenager I had many orgasms before this, but I 
really don't count beating off while looking at a centerfold in some 
smelly bathroom as having sex. True, you eventually do come and it's 
better than nothing, but it's just not the same when you're alone and 
you DO feel like a jerk after you've finished. Is this why some people 
call it jerking off?
  Unlike some of the stories you may have downloaded from this board 
(yours truly included), my sex life didn't begin with shapely, 
beautiful, walking wet-dreams throwing me down the on playground and 
fucking my brains out. Way back then, if a girl liked you, she hit you a 
lot and pestered you in the most annoying way. To a boy who couldn't 
even spell hormones yet, let alone know what they were, this was not a 
person you wanted to be near. To me, girls were to be avoided. Somewhere 
along the line, as all 5 and 6 year old boys find out, I realized I was 
stronger than the girls who were hitting me, so it was only logical that 
I should start to hit them back.
  This was when I first enrolled in the course; Big Brothers - 101. 
Looking back at this period of time in my life, it's really a shame my 
school didn't include the subject on their report cards. My parents 
would have definitely been more proud of me. There were so many Big 
Brothers, and those of us who attended their classes had a difficult 
time graduating. Besides learning the relationship between a cold 
compress and a black eye, I was taught how to properly re-align mangled 
fingers, the different techniques of stopping a bleeding nose, shown 
that, yes, I could be lifted up by the ears just like a puppy, and for 
the last lesson I was amazed to learn the tiny things hanging between my 
legs had nothing at all to do with how much pee I could retain before I 
finally had to find a toilet. The small and hard to control rubbery 
organ, which I seldom pulled out in time anyway, was primarily there for 
pain! Big Brothers always hit or kicked these first so they must be 
protected at all times.
  With all this new knowledge, I focused my attention on sports and 
stopped hitting little girls. I felt thought if someone I was competing 
against in a sport hit me, I could justifiably and probably hit them 
back without the threat of retaliation from a Big Brother. From the age 
of 7 until I turned 16, I ran up against a whole different set of 
problems, though. Not to appear boastful, but I was pretty good at 
almost every sport I tried out for. I didn't have any silly dreams of 
becoming an All American. I just wanted to be good enough to make 
everyone forget about Johnny Unitas, Wilt Chamberlain and Sandy Koufax.
  But again, those dreaded girls came out of the woodwork. Thankfully, 
they had retired their Mohammed Ali like jabs and, more importantly, 
their brothers were chained up in basements, or in jail where they 
belonged. The girls now began giving me these strange looks instead of 
hitting me, and started to ask me to walk them home from school, like I 
was some kind of bodyguard. A few even suggested we do our homework 
together. Boy, these frilly little things sure were dumb. I could take 
the garbage out at home by myself! I had to be told 8 or 9 dozen times, 
but I certainly didn't need their help doing it. Little did I know all 
of their kindness made these girls even more dangerous. To be fair, they 
weren't this way intentionally. Anyway, this was when I enrolled in my 
second extracurricular studies; 'The Disposition of a Jealous 
Boyfriend'.
  I can't really say this course was more difficult than 'Big Brothers', 
but I sure did hate all the pop-quizzes. You know the ones I'm talking 
about, where you walk around a corner and suddenly four or five guys are 
standing there, looking at you as if you just said something bad about 
ALL of their mothers. If the female readers of this story think men have 
no idea what it's like to be gang-banged, you're mistaken! Some of us 
have a pretty fair idea of what it must feel like. The best result of 
the class 'Jealous Boyfriends' was that our family doctor and I became 
close friends. I also learned a lot about hospital emergency room 
procedures and X-ray machines.
  After a particularly hard homework assignment from two jealous guys 
and three of their friends one afternoon, I was waiting in the 
antiseptic hallway of my new campus; "The Hospital of Forms, Forms, and 
More Forms'. As people walked by, I was trying to keep my crotch 
covered. Being 14 at the time, I thought everyone wanted to see how big 
or small I was down there. Nobody was really sneaking any peaks, but 
they kept giving me these funny looks.
  "What happened this time, Ken?" a soft voice asked.
  It was Mrs. Unbelievable, a young and very attractive volunteer worker 
I first met when I had my nose broken a couple years back, and who I 
last saw a few months ago when my friendly doctor finally fixed the 
hernia left over from my 'Big Brother' days.
  "I think my arm and a couple of my fingers are broke this time." I 
replied, lifting my left hand up and forgetting all about the gown.
  Although it hurt like hell and tears came to my eyes, I wanted to show 
her it beat the shit out of getting kicked in the nuts again.
  "That looks painful so why don't you put your hand back in your lap, 
and we'll get you over to X-ray."
 When her gentle fingers wrapped themselves around my wrist to place my 
hand down, the pain disappeared. I suddenly became aware of two things. 
Her tits! Those magnificent, missile-shaped mountains of flesh were 
almost poking me in the eyes. I could even see the white lace covering 
them up beneath her blouse.
  "You can cut my hand off, just don't move." I found myself mumbling.
  Luckily, Mrs. Bountiful-Boobs misinterpreted my words.
  "You're such a baby! Of course we have to move you. If your arm and 
fingers really are broken, the doctor will have to reset them but I 
promise he won't have to amputate your hand."
  I almost jumped out of the wheelchair when I felt her hands on my 
thighs, trying to close the gown.
  "Honestly, Ken! I think you're a bit of a show-off! You're always 
putting this thing on the wrong way."
  "Everyone can see my rear end if I wear it the other way!"
  "Would you rather they see something else? Oh well, just keep it 
closed until I get you to X-ray."
  I was definitely going to keep it closed! I now had a hard-on you 
wouldn't believe, and it wouldn't go away!
  "Are you going to tell me what happened?" Mrs. Juggernaut-Jugs asked 
when we reached the elevator.
  I couldn't reply. I had lost the ability to speak the moment her tits 
started bouncing up and down on my head while she wheeled me through the 
hospital. I then felt her leaning over me, the front of her soft 
warheads poking into my shoulders now.
  "Don't you think you should cover up again?" she almost whispered as 
the elevator doors opened.
  I don't believe I'll ever be more embarrassed as I was then. I looked 
up and saw two girls, maybe 17 or 18, both of them wearing the red 
stripped outfits and both of them giggling their heads off while staring 
at my lap. I must have been dreaming about Mrs. Nike Missiles because my 
dick was harder than ever and sticking straight up out of the gown I had 
on backward.
  "I'm sure you two have something better to do," my private Florence 
Nightinggale said, "so stop embarrassing this poor boy and move out of 
the way."
  Just before she pushed my wheelchair, I leaned my head back to beg her 
to wait for the next elevator. While gazing at the two perfumed beauties 
only inches above me, my hand slipped and out popped my dick again. I 
must have looked like someone who just received a lobotomy, cause all I 
could do was drool over the two lace covered mounds which were about to 
smother me.
  When her hands closed the front of my gown and then patted it in 
place, I went off like a rocket! My dick sprang free once more and waved 
around, spraying my cum like I had never done in the bathroom back home.
  No, the two girls in the elevator didn't suddenly drop to their knees 
and start devouring my dick. And no, Mrs. Make-Me-Lose-Control didn't 
begin to lick my eruption from her fingers and beg me for more. In my 
mind they did all this, but in reality the two girls began laughing 
their asses off and Mrs. Baker (the volunteer's real name) jumped away 
from me like I had some dreadful contagious disease.
  After finishing in the X-Ray department, someone else wheeled me over 
to get a cast put on my broken hand and arm. The coaches at school cried 
a little, but I didn't tell them what really happened. After all, I 
still had other limbs to worry about!
  Yes, the story of how I acted like a sex pervert by jacking-off in the 
elevator had run the rumor mill even before I was released. My friendly 
doctor told me the version he heard, and I gave him mine after he 
explained Mrs. Baker could be fired because of what happened. The only 
good thing about the whole incident was how everything was blown out of 
proportion. All the female nurses kept checking me out with sly smiles, 
and several offered to help me into my street clothes. Of course, I 
wasn't as big and didn't come as much as all the rumors said, but who 
was I to spoil all those dreams (I'm talking about mine, not all the 
nurses).
  I did have a chance to see Mrs. Baker several times later, but she 
would only smile, say hello, and quickly walk away from me. Can't say as 
I really blame her. All those rumors were more cruel to her than me, but 
they did eventually die down.
  I know this is shorter than the other stories I have written and not 
near as hot, but although it isn't the memory I wish I had, I hope you 
enjoy it just the same. I also made this as humorous as possible, to 
avoid feeling the embarrassment again. Who wouldn't?

--