SERBIAN STUD STABLE
I haven't gone out much recently.
Felt no real urge to go out and about, late at night, and mingle with the other nocturnal types trying to drink off the last week.
Seeing friends now and then was great, but other than that I was more than satisfied staying at home, or riding my bike into the wee hours.
Lately I have felt that old urge return. With a vengeance.
Not really looking for anything, but hungering for new sights and experiences.
It is precisely this sort of thing that was in store for me this particular night.
But not in the ways I had hoped.
Not by a long shot.
It was eighties night at a local bar. There was a dance floor, and all that, but it wasnt a club, no matter how much they tried to pull it off.
Which made the payment of a cover all the more ridiculous.
Someone else ponied up the dough, without me even asking, so it barely registered as a concern.
Last week it was goth night, something I was all for. Not that I like to dress up like Marilyn Manson or have patent leather anything. It was because I would not fit in, and stick out rather obnoxiously in comparison.
I have developed a certain penchant for attending events and situations in which I feel the least welcome. Not belonging is my special brand of acceptance.
There were costumes and get ups, sure, but none as exaggerated as the week before.
Better music, though.
Especially since all the goth/industrial songs began to sound like more ominous variations on "cotton eyed joe".
Which certainly makes me want to open a vein, so i guess it makes sense.
All my drinks were being paid for, so I naturally would put them down as soon as I got them.
Far be it from me to not show the proper etiquette.
Which of course lead naturally to dancing.
When I say dancing, I mean the rather spasmodic, full body dry heave I tend to do set to music. My legs seem to spring out away from me, akin closely to the earliest experiments on the muscular tissue of dead frogs. The arms, well, the arms are a different situation. One arm can generally be
in motion. But not when the other one is also moving. Something must be wrong with my medulla oblongata. Once the one arm stops, the other can pick up, like the passing of some invisible baton. Needless to say its more of the parody of dance than the real thing.
After embarrassing myself by pole dancing to Prince's Erotic City, hey someone had to, my bladder was in an uproar, and I made my way for the men's bathroom. Which was crowded, of course. I had a cigarette outside, and made my way back in. This time around there wasnt a line at all.
The only people remotely near the restroom were two fellows who came out together, apparently in a state of agitation. They were speaking Russian, or Serbian. Some slavic language. While I couldnt understand what was being said, their rushed speaking and conspiratorial, or at least worried tones lead me to believe it was some sort of bad trouble.
The cold war being over, I didnt think anything of walking into the bathroom. It was probably an unrelated situation.
I fling open the door, a lit cigarette hanging from my lips, and I see....IT.
I say it because I could not tell what it was at first glance.
There was a fellow Serbian, at the far end of the room, standing next to the dividing wall separating the only toilet from the urinal. He wasnt the object in question. What was, however, seemed to be attached to him.
At first glance, which has now been seared into my memory by the foreman grill of sheer horror, it seemed that there was a large, fleshy protuberance emanating from his mid section. A strange, fleshy, trunklike object.
It just didnt register at first.
Was this man some strange freak with some genetic abnormality that caused some freakish limb to grow....
....and then it hit me.
Like a shot of semen in the eye from the almighty.
It was a penis.
Not just any.
But his.
What exactly he was doing with it, I dont know. From the size of it, what WASNT he doing with it.
This went way beyond what was considered normal, or decent, in ways of human anatomy. This was some straight up "Horsecock Johnson" styled freakshow porno stuff here.
John Holmes had nothing on this guy.
I could not make out the head, nor did I want to, but it would almost have been a relief to see, just to ensure that there were not large, canivorous leeches the thickness of Pilsberry cookie batter rolls lurking around the premises.
Now, generally speaking, guys with small penises seem to be of the braggy, chip on their shoulder lot. They have a lot to prove, and to overcompensate for.
This guy, inversely, should have had self esteem off the charts, and enough good will towards his fellow man to start his own happyfuntime feel good movement.
But it was not so.
He was angry. Very angry.
And much like his penis, not afraid to reveal it fully.
Now, there comes certain times in your life feel are tests of one's self. Of your true mettle. Moments you can look back on and gauge your courage, strength of will against adversity.
Did you stand your ground or did you flee, tail between your legs. No pun intended.
Well, ok a little bit.
I could not back down now. I had to look my destiny square in the eye and not let my fear dictate my actions, and carry through with my initial plan.
Plus I was about to wet myself.
Bladder bolstering me with the original liquid courage, I made my way to the stall adjacent to him. With only a rickety privacy wall between us.
I unzip myself and scoot my own member out, feeling more than a little bit inadequate, and began to relieve myself. Luckily my stream was now cowed by the circumstances at hand.
Despite this obvious distraction in front of him, Jackoff Smirnov here began to take a particular notice of me.
He muttered something in his foreign tongue, angrily.
I did not respond.
How could I?
WHY would I?
Where I come from, the conversation starts when the cock goes away.
"Vaastadonia, eh? EH??!!"
He began punching the dividing wall with his fist, which buckled violently with every shot, threatening to spring from the wall at any moment.
Leaving nothing between me and his man snake.
Now, not to disparage any ethnic groups, but Serbians have a reputation for getting a little....wild. Not the type of fellows to casually fuck with, if you like your teeth, or breathing something other than your own blood.
And thats with their pants on.
I would rather deal with five made Cosa Nostrans with a vendetta to teabag me back to the stone age than one freakishly endowed Serbian.
During the Bosnian/Serbian/Croatian fracass a few years back, I could imagine four stout men leaping from trees or low buildings onto the cocks of the most fantastically hung of their compatriots, riding down like firepolls, to unleash ungodly projectiles of man gravy upon their hapless foes...
Keep cool, I tell myself. Finish up. You are almost done.
Smoke from cigarette curling into my eyes, blinding me, I try my best to hurry things along. If this isn't hell, it sure as shit could pass for the coming attractions.
Horsecock had quieted down for a few seconds, muttering under his breath, and I felt the worst was over. Maybe the depressive effects of alcohol had taken over, or tumescence had occured and he would pass out from blood loss to the brain.
No such luck.
"Bullsheet. BULLSHEEET!!!"
God, I hope he doesnt attack me. Because he will kick my ass.
While he pummels me with both fisteses, I will be too busy trying to swat away his Serbian super sausage to put up any kind of real defense.
Moments before I finish up, or am garroted from behind in the most sinister fashion ever contemplated, his friends burst into the rest room.
"POOT CHORE DEEK AWAY AN LESS GO!"
"NO! NOO! FAAACK CHU!!! FACK CHU!!!"
He began hammering the wall with renewed frenzy.
I shook it off, hoping for each drip to be my last, zipped up, averting eye contact, and made my hasty retreat. Let his friends handle it.
IT.
Later that night I had to ponder what he was so angry about.
Maybe he was trying to make friends, and found the language barrier to be incredibly frustrating, and simply expressed himself as was the custom in his homeland. He could very easily have been the janitor, snaking the toilet with that thing. With a few inches to spare.
Or maybe he was too inebriated to stick his manhood back into his pants, without escaping the cheese grater effect of his zipper, and his pleas of help were being ignored by this American asshole, who was too inadequately proportioned to ever understand his rather unique and personal dilemma.
Either way, I wasnt going to stick around and find out.
Explaining away a shiner caused by a ruthless cockslap is not something one could easily live down.
Felt no real urge to go out and about, late at night, and mingle with the other nocturnal types trying to drink off the last week.
Seeing friends now and then was great, but other than that I was more than satisfied staying at home, or riding my bike into the wee hours.
Lately I have felt that old urge return. With a vengeance.
Not really looking for anything, but hungering for new sights and experiences.
It is precisely this sort of thing that was in store for me this particular night.
But not in the ways I had hoped.
Not by a long shot.
It was eighties night at a local bar. There was a dance floor, and all that, but it wasnt a club, no matter how much they tried to pull it off.
Which made the payment of a cover all the more ridiculous.
Someone else ponied up the dough, without me even asking, so it barely registered as a concern.
Last week it was goth night, something I was all for. Not that I like to dress up like Marilyn Manson or have patent leather anything. It was because I would not fit in, and stick out rather obnoxiously in comparison.
I have developed a certain penchant for attending events and situations in which I feel the least welcome. Not belonging is my special brand of acceptance.
There were costumes and get ups, sure, but none as exaggerated as the week before.
Better music, though.
Especially since all the goth/industrial songs began to sound like more ominous variations on "cotton eyed joe".
Which certainly makes me want to open a vein, so i guess it makes sense.
All my drinks were being paid for, so I naturally would put them down as soon as I got them.
Far be it from me to not show the proper etiquette.
Which of course lead naturally to dancing.
When I say dancing, I mean the rather spasmodic, full body dry heave I tend to do set to music. My legs seem to spring out away from me, akin closely to the earliest experiments on the muscular tissue of dead frogs. The arms, well, the arms are a different situation. One arm can generally be
in motion. But not when the other one is also moving. Something must be wrong with my medulla oblongata. Once the one arm stops, the other can pick up, like the passing of some invisible baton. Needless to say its more of the parody of dance than the real thing.
After embarrassing myself by pole dancing to Prince's Erotic City, hey someone had to, my bladder was in an uproar, and I made my way for the men's bathroom. Which was crowded, of course. I had a cigarette outside, and made my way back in. This time around there wasnt a line at all.
The only people remotely near the restroom were two fellows who came out together, apparently in a state of agitation. They were speaking Russian, or Serbian. Some slavic language. While I couldnt understand what was being said, their rushed speaking and conspiratorial, or at least worried tones lead me to believe it was some sort of bad trouble.
The cold war being over, I didnt think anything of walking into the bathroom. It was probably an unrelated situation.
I fling open the door, a lit cigarette hanging from my lips, and I see....IT.
I say it because I could not tell what it was at first glance.
There was a fellow Serbian, at the far end of the room, standing next to the dividing wall separating the only toilet from the urinal. He wasnt the object in question. What was, however, seemed to be attached to him.
At first glance, which has now been seared into my memory by the foreman grill of sheer horror, it seemed that there was a large, fleshy protuberance emanating from his mid section. A strange, fleshy, trunklike object.
It just didnt register at first.
Was this man some strange freak with some genetic abnormality that caused some freakish limb to grow....
....and then it hit me.
Like a shot of semen in the eye from the almighty.
It was a penis.
Not just any.
But his.
What exactly he was doing with it, I dont know. From the size of it, what WASNT he doing with it.
This went way beyond what was considered normal, or decent, in ways of human anatomy. This was some straight up "Horsecock Johnson" styled freakshow porno stuff here.
John Holmes had nothing on this guy.
I could not make out the head, nor did I want to, but it would almost have been a relief to see, just to ensure that there were not large, canivorous leeches the thickness of Pilsberry cookie batter rolls lurking around the premises.
Now, generally speaking, guys with small penises seem to be of the braggy, chip on their shoulder lot. They have a lot to prove, and to overcompensate for.
This guy, inversely, should have had self esteem off the charts, and enough good will towards his fellow man to start his own happyfuntime feel good movement.
But it was not so.
He was angry. Very angry.
And much like his penis, not afraid to reveal it fully.
Now, there comes certain times in your life feel are tests of one's self. Of your true mettle. Moments you can look back on and gauge your courage, strength of will against adversity.
Did you stand your ground or did you flee, tail between your legs. No pun intended.
Well, ok a little bit.
I could not back down now. I had to look my destiny square in the eye and not let my fear dictate my actions, and carry through with my initial plan.
Plus I was about to wet myself.
Bladder bolstering me with the original liquid courage, I made my way to the stall adjacent to him. With only a rickety privacy wall between us.
I unzip myself and scoot my own member out, feeling more than a little bit inadequate, and began to relieve myself. Luckily my stream was now cowed by the circumstances at hand.
Despite this obvious distraction in front of him, Jackoff Smirnov here began to take a particular notice of me.
He muttered something in his foreign tongue, angrily.
I did not respond.
How could I?
WHY would I?
Where I come from, the conversation starts when the cock goes away.
"Vaastadonia, eh? EH??!!"
He began punching the dividing wall with his fist, which buckled violently with every shot, threatening to spring from the wall at any moment.
Leaving nothing between me and his man snake.
Now, not to disparage any ethnic groups, but Serbians have a reputation for getting a little....wild. Not the type of fellows to casually fuck with, if you like your teeth, or breathing something other than your own blood.
And thats with their pants on.
I would rather deal with five made Cosa Nostrans with a vendetta to teabag me back to the stone age than one freakishly endowed Serbian.
During the Bosnian/Serbian/Croatian fracass a few years back, I could imagine four stout men leaping from trees or low buildings onto the cocks of the most fantastically hung of their compatriots, riding down like firepolls, to unleash ungodly projectiles of man gravy upon their hapless foes...
Keep cool, I tell myself. Finish up. You are almost done.
Smoke from cigarette curling into my eyes, blinding me, I try my best to hurry things along. If this isn't hell, it sure as shit could pass for the coming attractions.
Horsecock had quieted down for a few seconds, muttering under his breath, and I felt the worst was over. Maybe the depressive effects of alcohol had taken over, or tumescence had occured and he would pass out from blood loss to the brain.
No such luck.
"Bullsheet. BULLSHEEET!!!"
God, I hope he doesnt attack me. Because he will kick my ass.
While he pummels me with both fisteses, I will be too busy trying to swat away his Serbian super sausage to put up any kind of real defense.
Moments before I finish up, or am garroted from behind in the most sinister fashion ever contemplated, his friends burst into the rest room.
"POOT CHORE DEEK AWAY AN LESS GO!"
"NO! NOO! FAAACK CHU!!! FACK CHU!!!"
He began hammering the wall with renewed frenzy.
I shook it off, hoping for each drip to be my last, zipped up, averting eye contact, and made my hasty retreat. Let his friends handle it.
IT.
Later that night I had to ponder what he was so angry about.
Maybe he was trying to make friends, and found the language barrier to be incredibly frustrating, and simply expressed himself as was the custom in his homeland. He could very easily have been the janitor, snaking the toilet with that thing. With a few inches to spare.
Or maybe he was too inebriated to stick his manhood back into his pants, without escaping the cheese grater effect of his zipper, and his pleas of help were being ignored by this American asshole, who was too inadequately proportioned to ever understand his rather unique and personal dilemma.
Either way, I wasnt going to stick around and find out.
Explaining away a shiner caused by a ruthless cockslap is not something one could easily live down.