Barry’s Big Balls

Part 2: Balls 2 the Wall

By: Azburglar

I’m not sure what I had been thinking when I did it. Surely, I wasn’t of the right sort of mind at the time. Not when I chose a picture of those twins of his. Swollen, wrinkled, hanging down low below him in a way indicative of their humongous size and weight. Heavy to hold, smooth, but can swing fast and hard when push comes to shove. Much bigger they looked in person; the camera adding pounds not apparently applicable to fleshy globe shaped appendages. A glistening bead of sweat blotted the left one; the photograph was not a simple image either but an Iphone Live Photo. Every time my aroused digit slid across him, I’d see them jostle about, alive and hypnotizing, enormous and frightening, for a brief moment before the digitized jpeg teasingly stilled.

He probably thinks of me as some conquered person. A sucker he won one over on, both literally and figuratively. If he doesn’t, it’s not for want of evidence. How could I even face him anymore? Not when he left me like that. So covered in it, my face sticking, hair crumpled with it, anus searing, debauched, drooling out the sides of my contorted parted lips, caked in filth, wafting musk and foul body odor, ribs squeezing, kneeling on his floor, Nick eavesdropping, and my own flaccid penis utterly spent and exhausted. It had been a month since then.

A bright and melodic series of soft chiming notes awakened me and I grabbed at my phone.

“Barry?”

“It’s Nick.”

I pretended to cough into my phone.

“Did you text him?”

“Nah, just having a dream. You woke me up.”

“Yeah, if that’s who you’re dreaming of. Well, you might want to check your sheets.”

“Enough of that. Trust me. It was nothing to dream about. Gross. I’ve had trouble sleeping since. Serious insomnia.”

“I bet. You need sunlight. I think it’d help if we could discuss what happened. Just saying. It’ll give you some relief. Getting things off your chest.”

“Nah, that’ll make it even worse. Enough of your exposure therapy. It’s bullshit. I need the opposite of that. A rasa of the tabula. Amnesia. That Jim Carrey movie where they delete specific memories. Is there someplace you can do that? I bet in China. If anyone would have the technology to format a brain like a hardrive; it’d be the Chinese.”

“You can sit in the pool and soak rays at my mom’s. I’ll relax under the ramada for shade, listen and type on my laptop. Take proper notes. Totally confidential. We can look for solutions on the net using mom’s wifi. Surely there are other accounts of people. Ones who encountered him and struggled to cope. I recall there may even be a Reddit community devoted to them. Have you tried the latest Chat GPT? It’s awfully slick.”

“Your right, Chat GPT ought to know how to erase hard encoded brain memories.”

Two days later I was at that dumpy place that never sweeps the floor, but I go to because it still sells blue Monster Zeros. My phone began chiming and when I pulled it out of my pocket I saw them. Barry’s beautiful humongous balls. My hand clawed at the phone like a cornered honey badger.

The call sputtered, clicked, connected and over the phone’s speaker I immediately heard a cascade of feminine moaning and grunting.

The heavyset older woman clerking the cramped superette stared coldly at me and grimaced through her sagging jowls.

Quickly, I ducked into the brown tiled men’s room which appeared thankfully empty, dirty it was with cracked mirrors and cigarette butts and tall empty beer cans in the trash and had only a slight fecal smell. I concentrated and I could hear them. They were slapping loudly against the woman’s flesh. Where exactly they smacked against was unclear but what was certain was their steady and familiar cadence.

Through thick gasps, the woman’s voice sounded through the phone in a sleazy California elocution, “Gawd, Barry, you, unh, seriously calling someone right now?” A droplet of cool sweat dropped from my forehead on to the lit screen.

“Whoops,” Barry muttered in a muffled voice.

The raw jungle slapping sound continued in sequence, sharp given the sheer mass involved and in measure with haughty San Fernando valley femme grunting, and its congruence with the wafting odor of the soiled latrine reminded me of school field trips to the primate exhibit at the sweltering zoo. Some fumbling noise distortions sounded, and the call abruptly hung up leaving the dirty men’s room in silence.

A commode flushed loudly before the stall door creaked as a short older man with a beer belly bowed out from his municipal code metered stall. Without a wash, he slapped his right hand against my left shoulder. “Brudha, that was music,” he said in a voice that was rancid and alcoholic but also moved and full of raw emotion. “The sound of dem. Slappin. Must’ve been big’uns. It’s been ahhwhile, son. Since I felt its mighty presence. Looming large as it tends. Could yous feel it was there? ‘Eh son?” When he raised his palm from my shoulder, I saw a grease strain where it had been. From the smell I surmised that an oily burrito lathered in hot sauce explained both the blemish on my shirt and his reason for being where he just was.

Over fifty thousand people stood, hooted, and bellowed as the quarterback of the Cards, flanked on all sides by berserking, enraged bulls, raised his bloated bicep that strained against the red nylon seams of his scuffed jersey sleeve, chucked the fucker, and the pigskin spun, swiveled, and glided and somehow I imagined I could hear it whistling despite how improbable that would be over the roaring crowd before landing right into the willing sticky gloves of the Card’s nimble receiver. What proceeded was the USA’s version of the running of the bulls with some bovines soaked red on account of an earlier gristly sequence of vicious gorings and ghastly dismemberment. The heat scorched and a sputtering blimp carrying a flapping advertisement for Cialis hovered above in the invariably desiccated cerulean sky. Upon touchdown, a burning and vehement rock anthem belted out the amped loudspeakers provoking feverish rhythmic stomping.

I wiped thick sweat off my singed brow. “Fuck, I need a beer!” I yelled. “I know it’s not cheap but otherwise I’m gonna stroke out here! You want one as well? A brisk cold foamer.”

“Water, please!” Nick responded as he eyed the greens below before blinking. He was smart to have worn a brimmed ball cap that shaded himself from the blistering and discerning rays of scorching sunlight.

I bartered a tallboy of devil’s ale while taking refuge in the shade and misters behind the stands. When turning a corner in search of a water peddler, I thudded into another man, swole, and sweating. When I looked up, I recognized him, went white, goosebumps on my arms, shook, looked away, and said nothing. My ribs squeezed against one another like I had a black hole atop my liver. My whole body trembled and struggled against the urge to break into a full sprint away from him.

“Well, well, well,” Barry responded with a smirk on his face and puffed out his thick chest. “I can’t go anywhere without running into one of my slutty bimbos. Sorry I haven’t texted. I had other bitches to attend to. You know how it is. Or let’s be real. Likely you don’t. It’s got to be hard. Being in your position. Getting just a brief taste only to return to a state of desperate starvation.”

“L-look,” I stammered. “T-things got a little out of hand. I want to just be friends. You know, what happened, happened. I never much cared for sequels, I’m sure you know.”

“When you’re starving like that, your guts start to get all gnarled up inside.” Barry continued. “It’s rough. Circumstances like yours. God, it’s hot out today. Look, bitch, I’ll do you a lil favor. It’s like a rainforest down there. I’m sure its starting to stink. Why don’t you help cool things off a bit? You’d like that right? Cleaning up. Especially after how messy it got last time. There’s a place for men-only right past that corner. I’ll play quarterback and you wide receiver. Or maybe cheerleader. Yeah, with that slick throat you’ve got and those flexible cheeks. I bet you could belt out a real good whoop whoop. Don’t worry slut, I’ll give you something to cheer on and on about.”

The way the Cards punter loped at it. Almost like a dance. The virescent turf to him was akin to an open show stage. Like one of those national talent contests they used to show on prime-time broadcast networks. As if he is allotted his one chance to blow his load in front of fifty thousand people all hoping for it to be as nasty as possible, along with who knows how many perverts watching the debauched spectacle on discount sets purchased from valley super stores. He nailed it, even scowling curmudgeon Piers Morgan swooped thumb, and the crowd roared, craving it, and hopeful that they might be coated in the same very stuff themselves, like the soak zone at Sea World. Huge muscular men rammed and pounded each other for the pleasure of their sweaty packed in audience of sadists in a veritable masculine orgy all over a moist leathery wrinkled testicle. It was sponsored by America’s second favorite boner-pill, CialisTM.

The tallboy of beer stood atop the concrete pavement next to the closed door of the furthest stalled shitter from the heavily trafficked doorway entrance. It sweat so much, even more than I, that it had formed a small cool puddle around its base from the condensation. Hard, long, and dripping wet it was.

Barry sat atop it, a king on his mighty porcelain throne, while I knelt in front of him sweating and my hands shaking. In the stall closest to us, there was grunting followed by the sound of an explosive bowel movement. Men streamed in and out, stall doors slamming, male voices discussed the game, and there was a constant sound of blowing out from the no-touch hand dryers that they installed during Covid-19. I recalled reading an exposé that these nasty blowers are ironically actually far worse at spreading disgusting filth all over the place.

“Nice and slow now,” Barry commanded. “This place is fucking gross. When I walk out of here. I want to feel pristine. Like fresh out of a mountain spring clean. Don’t you dare crack that beer until you’re finished.”

The toilet next door flushed.

My moist shaking hand fidgeted as it gripped the zipper to his jeans. Distending it down, my nostrils filled with the musky smell of them. Some sweat dripped down off my face and landed on the ground only for me to realize it wasn’t and in fact I had been drooling.

My ribs sucked like a vacuum.

The stadium speakers belted out the start ofThunderstruck by ACDC and the rapacious mass audience stomped in cadence with the thrashing guitar. A larger presence loomed over everything slowing time. I had felt it once before. Hiking the empty desert with my dad as a kid. He stopped me and told me to not make a sound. ‘Just stare and listen.’ My skin crawled and body shuddered, and I no longer felt like a person with individual desires but a constituent part of this larger living entity. Dad had called it, ‘The Hive.’

“I-I… I can’t!” I protested, spun around, opened the door, and charged out the stall.

Halfway I made it out the crowded latrine before Barry called, “Your beer?”

I turned around and shuffled back towards him, opened the dented worn door with shaking moist hands, and picked up the cold hard shaft of the sweltering can. Peering up, I could see his jeans undone and his rough right palm was holding a shaft of his own and below it they hung long, and he was swinging them with great heft showing their substantial size and dense weight. They were wrinkled and free of hair. It’s likely Barry had someone keep them well trimmed. I’m sure he wouldn’t have a hard time. Finding someone who would do that for him. In fact, there’s a good chance that he happened upon someone who volunteered for the job. A testicle enthusiast who saw it not as mere volitional labor, but a duty owed to humanity generally. They having been bestowed upon us would certainly invoke in any conscientious man or woman a proper sense of stewardship.

They were sweaty, mostly covered in a thin layer. While not soaking in it, I could tell there was a lot of it. Not due to them being drenched but on account of the sheer surface area. With so much moisture seeping into my mouth while I stared; I noticed how resultantly awfully dry and thirsty my own raw throat felt. I read Gatorade was fabricated by scientists as a way for elite athletes to replenish expended vital fluids. They did it by recreating what’s normally lost and loading enough sugar into the shit to render the lab grown perspiration almost palatable. In other words, man sweat is nothing but salty Gatorade for hardcore nattys.

“On your knees bitch,” Barry ordered with a smirk as he swung his huge sack and stroked his hard shaft. “You fuck around anymore and you’re leaving this stall like I left you last time. C’mon, so we can finish this and watch the rest of the game real comfortable. Or at least I will. Hurry slut, your ale’s getting cold.”

I began to kneel, hesitated, shook, and opened my mouth to say something but stopped. Not again. Not ever. He humiliated me once. I don’t care how much I want to touch them, so bad I’d even put up with the nasty sweat. I’m still a person inside with dignity; not some warped pervert. My left hand slapped over my eyes, body turned, and I hustled out of the stall making sure not to look back.

“We’re back to this shit again!?” Barry yelled after me. “I subjugated you once; I’ll do it again! Just wait bitch! Hubris will be your ruin!”

My AC chugged and all the blinds pulled down so as to keep out the unrelenting hot sun. The desert would begin to cool starting next month but it was still scorching outside. Like you have to blast full AC in your car even when you wake up and it’s still dark in the morning. If you don’t, you’re liable to pass out and melt until you merge with the searing plastic dashboard. So is my theory on the origin of Transformers. Disaffected salt-of-the-earth blue collar Phoenician proles struggling to maintain health insurance, CDLs, and dwindling vitality during protracted divorces. One day the freon leaks facilitating their synthesis with the very machines they had spent years operating but had in fact always been operated by since the technology was always quietly alienating them from families and preventing them from climbing out of the toxic sludge they’ve long drowned in. It’s not hard to understand why then they become three story tall bitter murder machines. Holding water for fascistic primes and Michael Bay. I was talking on the phone.

“Look, I just can’t be here right now.”

“What do you mean you don’t have a bedroom to spare? Isn’t Kenny in college now?”

“No, I don’t have a warrant out. Look, if I ever fucked around that way, I’d go voluntarily. I couldn’t stand it otherwise. The loathsome anticipation.”

“Maybe I could stay in Jason’s room? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“I can’t be here. The heat. It’s making me delusional. Isn’t an apparent? Obviously, I’m not the same as I once was. Look, please.”

I sighed, shook my head, and hung up.

My phone rattled and shook, and I looked and saw his enormous twins jostle teasingly. A message. I put the phone down before picking it back up. God, whatever he sent me. It was probably gross.

I sighed and touched his balls.

My hands trembled. Thin guy my age splayed nude against a cheap bare mattress in an otherwise dark empty room. His lurid rouged post-coital face hideously contorted, pinched, his bulging tear-filled eyes nacreous, and he appeared paralyzed. Like he went on the most prurient roller coaster of his young life only to return to the queue so beset by shame and disgust in what he’d done that his nude body erupted into vicious seizures until his circumoral muscles froze into a twisted and uncanny looking O-face of which it was obvious that the euphoria that had originally produced such an expression had long subsided and existed in his head in a historical sense only, something that could be extracted only in a manner like a paleontologist digs dinosaur bones. His legs were spread over the mattress and his asshole on display leaking a huge wad of gooey cum which in the Live Photo slightly oozed out of him before the image stilled. I recognized the tip of Barry’s fat cockhead near its bottom edge.

My phone buzzed with the text,You’re next, bitch!

I treaded carefully from that point on. Often wearing disguises when going outside. I had a fake mustache, a prosthetic nose, various old man hats, a red dress, a black wig, heels and some fake tranny boobs. Always checking for Barry wherever I went. Making sure at restaurants to always have my back to a wall. However, over time, I got sloppy. Letting my guard down and not paying as close attention. I stopped altogether with the disguises especially after some older guy asked me for a blowjob. I explained I was in disguise in my regular masculine voice, and he winked, smiled, and told me he could tell. I asked him where about we’d even do something like he said as I sure as hell wasn’t going to go home with him nor let him over to my place. He gestured to some bushes, but it was hot outside, and I told him I wouldn’t do it but thanked him for the offer. He said he understood, nodded at me, and didn’t leave. Finally, I told him he needed to get away from me and he complained that up until that point he had been very impressed with how polite I had been.

It had started to cool off when I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot of a large Mexican restaurant in Scottsdale. By the mountains, it wasn’t near any major roadways. Quiet and scenic. I saw thick gray chains on the main door inside. Maybe it’s the type of place that closes for the summer? And here, the summer stretches late into the fall. This ought to end my prandial outing, however I saw Nick’s car parked. My door slammed with a thud, and I locked the car which beeped. I shuffled under palo verde trees and in the shade, it felt nice in the wind. “Nick?!” I yelled, walked around the side of the restaurant, and passed an arrangement of tall saguaro.

On the other side, heavily worn wooden outdoor tables stood vacant shaded by even more green-barked palo verde. Their chairs had been collected and stored elsewhere while the place wasn’t in business. The concrete patio emptied into the tan sand of open desert left wild skirting the edges of the protruding rocky brown mountain. The Grand Canyon state has large mountains but also much smaller ones and this was of the later variety. I noticed a sheet of paper flutter in the cool breeze atop one of the restaurant tables while a hanging turquoise wind chime tinkled.

My feet shuffled forward, and I looked down and examined the parchment. It was a menu. Next to a picture of the machaca con heuvo was something written in black marker. It read,HOWDY FAGGOT!

Strong arms grabbed each side of my torso and slammed it down on top of the hard wood table with a thunk. I struggled to free myself, but the man was bigger, and stronger than me and had me pinned. My eyes scoured the desert. It had perhaps cooled enough to merit hikers, but I saw no one. He held me there and all I could do is listen to the cicada’s buzz. It wasn’t cool enough yet. Not to finally freeze the noisy fucks.

“Not going nowhere this time” Barry’s voice bellowed above me. “You ditched me dirty back at that game. Imagine how more comfortable I’d’ve been the fourth quart. It could have been so relaxing for the both of us. I saw how thirsty you looked. You ruined everyone’s mojo. The Cards lost because of you; you realize right? They were up before you neglected my orders and ran away like the emotional bitch you are. Slurping bitter beer when you ought to have been sucking up my benevolent excess. I’ve put you in your proper place before and I’mma do it again. Uh huh. Damn tired of all the faggotry with you. You don’t think I saw through those pathetic attempts at disguises? Those lopsided fake tits weren’t fooling anyone, bimbo. You might not have the balls to do what needs done but I’ve got more than enough of ’em to not only make you do it but with a weird smile on your face always repeating ‘yessir.'”