The stripper’s name is Poochy and she’s a bodybuilder too and I swear to God, probably because of all the juice she’s on, her friggin’ clit is the size of my thumb. I mean, I take the shit too, there’s nothing wrong with anabolic agents. I’m a pretty big dude. But I got a pretty big thumb.
The first time I get her back to my place, I get her clothes off and I’m looking at her thinking, man, this chick looks like a damn teenage boy with some fake tit implants and this shaved cunt that’s starting to freak me out. I know she ain’t a guy, but all that muscle. And that clit’s like a micro-penis.
She’s in contest shape too, all thin-skinned and veiny with rock-hard glutes that have wild striations in them. Deep striations when flexed. Said she’s entering the Miss Olympia next year and she wants to get some heavy duty shit so she can win it.
She knows I’m the go-to guy for the juice.
She tells me she can pay maybe half price for some Decca and Anavar and she’ll take the rest out in trade. I’ve seen her at the gym before and she ain’t half bad. But when I saw her at the strip club, polishing that chrome pole with her box and then deep-throating a champagne bottle, shaking it till it sprayed foam all over the stage, I said, I told myself, man, I gotta get me some a that.
Maybe I’d even give her some juice for free.
It isn’t long before I realize what she really wants is the new Russian shit I been dealing; myovar. This stuff is like gold and everybody wants it but only I got it. Well, the Russians are making it but I’m selling it. And right now, it’s in limited supply.
The stuff is incredible in terms of muscle gains and there are no real side effects that anyone could tell. Goddamned Russians did their homework. Myovar’s great for women too because of the lack of androgenic effects. They don’t have to deal with hairy tits or their voices dropping a few notches so that they sound like a guy in drag. Or their clits sprouting like baby carrots. Also, this shit is great because it can’t be detected in the blood or urine or anything. It’s invisible.
And since it’s new and only the Russians are making it, everybody wants it. Word is out. The shit is expensive but there are plans in the works to start mass-producing it which will bring the price down a bit. Only a few people know that. Going national. Breaking out of Brighton Beach. Hell, worldwide even.
And to bodybuilders, a new drug like this is akin to finding the Holy freakin’Grail. It could mean the difference between first and second place in a show. Anything to get an edge. First place means endorsements, guest appearances. Lots of money. A way out of stripping or hustling. Second place is nothing. You might as well be last. Nobody knows the second place guy. Or girl.
And everybody knows that I’m the guy to come to.
The Russian liaison, if you will.
It's about a week after the first time we fucked. She comes over after work one night. Brings me a whole BBQ chicken, some fruit and a cheap bottle of red wine. She feeds me, pours the wine. Moves like a cat and smells of sex.
She finishes giving me some of the best head I ever had, complete with ice-cubes, drawing things out, taking her time. Even works the balls like some master scrotal artist, if there is such a thing. After, she slinks up my stomach, buries her face in my neck, whispers in my ear. “Can’t you just get me a little of that new stuff? That myovar. Huh, baby?”
I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of head I just got. This wakes me right the fuck up. I sit up in the bed, give her a pissed-off look.
“You know I can’t give you that shit,” I tell her, staring her down. “Friggin’ get me killed.”
A week after that, a Sunday, Poochy comes over, again bringing some food, a little wine. After we eat, we end up on the couch and before you know it, we’re naked and Poochy’s kneeling over me, straddling my head with those thick tanned legs, starting to grind her juiced-up baby carrot on my nose.
Her thighs are squeezing my head and that’s why I don’t hear the handcuffs jingling as she leans over and pulls them out of her bag. But when she clamps them around my wrists I feel it then alright, and she drops her weight down harder on me. Maybe she weighs one seventy-five or so cause she’s pretty tall and man, she almost kills me.
She’s suffocating me and then there’s a quick whack to my head. I don’t go out but it dazes me pretty good, enough time for her to clank another set of cuffs around my ankles.
Next thing Poochy’s standing beside me, still naked and shiny, probably because of all the lotion and oil and shit she rubs on at work. Mixed with sweat. She looks like some freaky muscled science-fiction warrior chick out of a graphic comic. She’s got a gun in her hand, waving it in front of me, muscles in her forearms dancing.
I’m on my back, hands cuffed overhead, the connecting chain wrapped around the pole of a heavy floor lamp. The ankle cuffs are hurting cause she’s got them too high and too tight and they’re pinching the skin on my calves. I’m buck naked with my dick tipping over, like a drunken sailor, falling on its side in defeat.
“I don’t want to do this, you know,” Poochy says. “I just want that myovar shit and that’ll be that.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Uncuff me now, Poochy. This ain’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing,” she says. “You see I got a gun.”
“Goddamn thing’s tiny,” I say, twisting my head, getting a look. “What’s it, a cap gun?”
“That’s baby shit, Pooch,” I say, shaking my head, grinning. “Come on. Get me out.”
Then another voice, down by my feet. “Yeah, twenty-two, asshole.”
This is another woman’s voice, only a little deeper. I strain, lift my head, look toward my feet and there’s another bodybuilder chick standing there, fisting a gun. She’s a little uglier than Poochy, even more muscular, with what looks like a little moustache and an Adam’s apple the size of a grapefruit. She’s got on spandex tights with a leopard design and a tight tank top. No tits, just nipples.
“Great,” I say. “Who’s this now?”
“That’s my girl, Lavender,” Poochy says, stepping into her shorts. “So you better be nice.”
“I shoulda known,” I say, smirking.
Lavender says, “You ain’t in any position to be getting wise.”
“We want that myovar now,” Poochy says, a little more forcefully, getting a shirt over her head. “All of it.”
“Can’t give it to you,” I say, shaking my head, lowering the eyelids for effect. “It ain’t my shit to give.”
“I’ll tell you one more time nicely,” Lavender says. “Tell us where it is.”
“No way,” I say. “That’s the Russian’s shit.”
“Fine,” Lavender says, stretching the word out, tucking the gun in at her waist.
Lavender walks around, standing next to me now, looking down at my cock, nodding, surveying. She’s even scarier up close. Got some pretty bad acne. She laughs, cackles really, says, “What a useless pitiful appendage.” She raises her knee, puts her foot up on the couch next to me. She starts to undo the laces of her sneaker. Slowly and deliberately.
“Lavender’s one of those dykes that just hates dick,” Poochy says, stepping back. “Me, I don’t give a crap so much one way or the other. But Lavender. Holy fuck.”
Lavender pulls the last segment of lace through the loops, holds up the white string so it’s hanging in front of my face, swaying, says, “Yup. This’ll do.”
“Poochy,” Lavender says, jutting her chin at my crotch. “Lift up that sorry ass worm, cause I ain’t touching that nasty thing. Just tug it up straight, baby.”
Poochy pinches the head of my dick, which is really starting to shrivel away, her short nails pinching a bit, and pulls hard toward the ceiling, stretching it. Lavender gets the string around the base of my member and twists the ends, arranges it slowly into a knot. First she does it so it’s a little snug. Then she looks at me, smiles a wicked smile, and pulls the string ends away from each other hard and fast, like she’s tying her shoe, choking the hell out of my cock.
“Shit!” I say, wriggling. “The heck is that?”
Lavender says, “It won’t be long before that ugly thing turns black, dies, and falls off.”
“Ready to give us that shit now?” Poochy says. “And whatever cash you got around?”
I look down below.
I figure I better negotiate.
My dick is already beet-red and swollen.
Or maybe just give it up.
“Fucking okay then,” I say, ticking my head. “In that back room. There’s a chest in the corner under some boxes and blankets. In there.”
“Much better.” Lavender heads into the back room.
“Okay,” I say to Poochy, bucking my pelvis a little bit. “Come on, baby. Get this string off now, huh?”
“Man, Poochy. I thought we had a thing going, me and you. Come on. It’s bad enough you taking the Russian shit. The hell am I going to tell those guys?”
“You ain’t gonna tell them nothing. You think we gonna leave you here, dickless or not?”
Shit. I knew it. These chicks were hardcore. “Come on, Pooch. I won’t tell, okay? I’ll tell them some guys came in, messed me up good. Man, this is starting to hurt. FUCK!”
My dick is dark purple, skin stretching tight. It feels like it’s going to start splitting any second like some pumped-up, swollen banana. Burst open, explode.
“Got it,” Lavender yells from the other room. I detect some kind of frenetic joy in her voice, like some kid finding the hidden holiday presents in her parents bedroom. “Boxes and boxes, Poochy baby. Tons of cash too.”
“Looks like we hit the jackpot,” Poochy says, more for my sake.
“Okay then. Get this fucking string OFF!”
Lavender is now dragging the chest across the room by its handle, toward the front door. She glances over at me. “My my,” she says. “That does look like it hurts. Wow.”
“You got the stuff,” I say. “Come on, Lavender, take the string off. Fuck. Come on, come on.”
“I’m gonna wait a while,” Lavender says, stopping for a second, standing upright. “Cause I wanna see that thing wither and crack off like a dried up twig.”
“Friggin shoot me then. Come on, come on now. THIS FUCKIN HURTS!”
Lavender walks over, brings the gun up, shrugs. Shoots my foot.
“FUUUUCK!” My fourth and fifth toes are pretty much gone, looking like some mangled chili dip. I have never been shot before and I think it’s funny because I don’t really feel anything in the foot. Yet. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”
“That’ll distract you,” Lavender says, matter of factly.
“Lavender?” Poochy says, her face changing a little, looking softer, getting antsy. “That’s enough, okay? Let’s get the hell outta here.”
“We can’t leave him,” Lavender says to Poochy, even more serious now. “You crazy?”
“Let’s just go, okay?”
“No way, bitch,” Lavender says.
There’s a short pause but it feels like forever.
My foot starts to throb.
My groin is on fire.
Poochy says, “Whaddya mean, ‘bitch’?”
“Like I said. You’re a weak shit. I knew it about you. Had a feeling. You ain’t the real deal.”
“Well, fuck you then.”
“No. Fuck YOU. I bet you like dick more than your saying. Right? Huh?”
“Maybe I do,” Poochy says, gun hand waving, head nodding. “Maybe I don’t.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“Let’s go, okay?”
“Knew it,” Lavender says, eyes darting. She points and shoots Poochy in the right tit. There’s actually a pop and there’s clear fluid running down her chest. The bullet must have cut through at an angle, bursting the implant but not seriously injuring Poochy, although she stumbled back a bit, looking surprised as hell.
Poochy says, “The fuck you doing, CUNT?!” She takes a random, reckless shot at Lavender while diving behind the couch and the bullet shatters the front window with a loud crash, triangular fragments of glass falling everywhere.
Lavender yells, “YOU AIN’T NO REAL DYKE, BITCH!” and blasts a few wild shots in Poochy’s direction. Bullets thud into the couch and wall.
Lavender grabs the chest handle, starts dragging it toward the door. She looks over at me, like she just remembered I was there, eyes glazed. She swings open the door, stopping it with her foot and brings the gun up in my direction, smiling, all teeth.
The whole front of my body is sprayed with slippery brain chunks and fragments of bone. A section of skull with hair lands on my stomach. In the doorway is my neighbor, Igor, one of the Russians living next door. He’s got a shotgun in his hands, jutting into the room like a cannon, a small puff of smoke drifting away above his head.
“IGOR!” I yell.
He looks at me, face contorted in a mix of disgust and confusion, as if he just had a whiff of the vilest odor in the world. “The fuck?”
I must have been a sight. Two-hundred pound naked guy, hands cuffed behind my head, legs cuffed with half a bloody foot, toes missing, and a swollen purple dick tied up with a bow like a birthday present. All this packaged beautifully in blood and guts.
I was about to tell him to get the fucking string off my dick and also that there was a one-titted crazy dyke bodybuilding chick behind the couch with a pistol.
But I didn’t need to.
Poochy pokes up from behind the couch, lets out a weak scream, and takes a frantic shot at Igor. In her excitement, the bullet arcs high and punctures the ceiling, bringing down little bits of plaster in a white puff.
For a split second it’s incredibly quiet, almost serene. The energy between us is palpable. I think it must be like the time in the air immediately after jumping off a building, if you happened to do that, that is. That quiet moment of clarity along the way, I imagine, free-falling in space. All the while knowing there was that inevitability of collision.
This time the blast takes off Poochy’s left tit, but also half her chest, ribs exploding, and sends her backwards into the wall, looking almost like it does in the movies, only those people are being pulled back by clear wires and strings.
Which reminds me.
“Igor!” I try to sit up, swing my body round, lift my pelvis. “Get this FUCKING STRING off my dick!”