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?



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