"Right in his Belly!"

Friday, January 9, 2009



I spend time at a college gym, trying in vain to put some strength and tone in my soft body. The guy who is in charge of the gym is a real bruiser, and he asks me if I want to help him teach a class. I say, "sure."

It turns out he's giving a fighting clinic to a group of pretty undergraduate girls. He's teaching them self-defense tactics. And his focus is on body-blows. And I'm the pot-bellied loser wimp who's going to help him demonstrate.

He brings me out and tells me to take my shirt off. I do. Then he tells me to lunge at him in a particular way. I do, and he deftly ducks or blocks my attack and responds with a devastating uppercut punch or elbow jab or judo chop right in the curve of my bare soft stomach.

Each shot totally devastates me. I stand doubled over, or fall to my knees, suffering, gasping, groaning. As I'm trying to pull myself together, he's explaining to the girls who are standing around in their spandex workout gear, what he did to me and why it worked. The girls ask questions, he answers.

Then when he's finished and I'm standing up straight again, he gives me another order, another way to lunge for him and pay for it with a belly-ache.


I imagine a professional wrestling fund-raiser event at an exclusive all-girls school. The real wrestlers roll into town and set up the ring. I am there because I am dating one of the students who is organizing the event. I stand around, useless, and the muscular men begin to mock me. I stand up for myself, and they quickly challenge me to meet them that night, in the ring, in front of the whole school, as part of the show. I have no choice but to agree.

In the ring, I get completely belly-beaten in front of the school. After a long stomach-beating, my opponent carries my limp body out of the ring, and lays me belly-up in the doorway of the arena, so the girls, as they leave, have to step over -- or on -- my bare beaten pot belly as they do so.

Sunday, January 4, 2009


... from another's story:

When I came back, there was this guy talking to her. Of course Kim got approached a lot, and I almost expected it if I left her alone. But this was no ordinary rival. This was a tall black guy, and I could see his muscled torso bulging through his T-shirt. He obviously spent a lot of time at the gym. Now I’m no weed, but I’m not a tough guy either, and don’t have much experience with real fights. I was used to guys chasing Kim, and knew how to play it cool and friendly.

So I came over and just said “hi,” expecting that once he realized we were together, he’d back off. He didn’t. Instead he glanced dismissively in my direction, sneered, and carried on talking to my lady. What’s more, as he did so, he put his hand on her arm. I was clearly no match for this guy if it came to blows. But I had to do something. I said, as neutrally as I could: “hey, that’s my wife, you know?” and took her other arm, protectively.

But he didn’t back off. He let go of Kim, and stood to face me, his legs set square apart. “Yeah? Well she is one beautiful lady. So what the hell is she doing with you?”

To be honest I was terrified of getting into a fight with this guy in a strange bar, and I just wanted us to leave. I thought Kim would want that too. “I don’t want any trouble, let’s just leave honey,” I said, and started to walk away with her hand in mine.

But Kim didn’t follow as I’d expected. She held back. In that second I stopped, turned around and looked her straight in the face. In her eyes I saw hesitation, confusion, and a twinge of excitement. It was almost as if she wanted to see me get into a fight.

The big guy seized his moment. He walked straight up to me and pushed me hard in the chest with both of his large hands. I let go of my wife’s arm as I flew to the floor, and heard a sharp intake of breath from her. This guy was strong, and, with my wife watching, I knew I was going to have to stand up for myself. I picked myself up and ran straight at him, swinging a fist towards his broad jaw. But he stepped to one side, almost lazily, and slammed a heavy fist into my stomach. THUD! "OOUFF!!" A small sound escaped from Kim again. I fell to the ground, on my hands and knees, winded and wanting to retch.

My wife stood close by, her feet in my line of vision – pretty slender toes, nails painted pale pink, protruded from her sexy strappy shoes. But she didn’t bend down to help me or try to stop the fight. She didn't say anything. She just stood there, startled, and I noticed that her breathing was heavy.

By this time the patrons of the bar had cleared a space. I thought that bouncers or someone else might help me at this point, but no – people we standing round watching. It must be that type of bar. I crawled away and managed to get to my feet. The guy stood there next to my gorgeous wife, smiling and thumbing towards her.

“I beat your wimp belly right in front of your wife. If you want her, come back and get more. So she can watch me punch her husband’s soft belly all over this room.”

Kim’s eyes were wide, and she had a half-smile. The guy raised his fists, and mocked me with his grin. From the way he was holding himself, he’d spent time in a boxing ring. But I had no choice. I put my fists up too, and he closed in. ....


by Belly Boy

It was a balancing act. I didn't want to run around just getting my belly beat up every day -- I mean, I did, but it would have made girls suspicious. They would have tabbed me as a pervert and shunned me. Which would have defeated the whole point of the scene, which is to give the image of me punched in the belly a pleasant connotation to them.

On the other hand, I couldn't just wait around for the opportunity to present itself. Which it always did to a young teen boy, eventually. But I had no way to be ready for it when it did. Like the time I was horsing around with this shorter trombone player in the band room, and Lisa D., my ultimate junior high school crush, was next to us unpacking her saxophone and telling us to knock it off. He threw a quick sidearm punch into my stomach, and he happened to catch me just right and wind me. Right in front of my hottest girl. But she wasn't looking and I didn't think to exaggerate my reaction enough to get her attention.

Frustration! So the solution was to seek situations where it could be a recurring event, within the horizon of the teenage girl's "normal." The easiest was to play on the well-known quality of teenage boys to boast and test each other's boasts and physical strength. To struggle to be top dog. Girls claim to think it's stupid, but I suspect they enjoy it more than they admit. They always seem to watch.

Here's how it worked: The first one I set up involved my brother, 5 years younger than me. I'm older, but more of a geek than he is, and by 15 I already had a curve to my belly. While he at 10 was athletic and aggressive and already aware of girls and how good it felt to look good in their presence.

We still played together when there was nothing else to do, and I had taught him to play "fight" in the basement, which basically was staging stunt fights with exaggerated reactions and sufferings. Many times I paced him and a friend of his through the act of giving me a belly-beating.

So when both my parents were working my mom would hire babysitters to come stay with my sister, who was just a baby then, in the afternoons. My brother and I were home at the time, and the baby just slept in the afternoon, but I guess she didn't think I was mature enough to babysit. The three girls who had the job over time were all right around my age. One was the older sister of one of my brother's buddies. She was a year older than me, shy and mousy, but had a beautiful belly, and she let it go bare the first day she showed up to sit.

It almost made me insane. Before long I had put the act in motion. Instead of watching TV, I made sure my brother and I hung around the babysitter. Then I started shoving him and romping on him, mostly playfully, but challenging him and he quickly responded and the escalation began. I waited for him to take a chop at my belly and say something about our basement playfights. When he did, I acted like the punch hurt worse than it did, and I acted like I was insulted.

With her looking on, bare belly and all, I challenged him that I could take 10 punches in the stomach from him without doubling up. And I took my shirt off. To my brother, this was a gift from the macho gods. To the girl, it was -- who can say. Her smile was inscrutable to me. But she stayed and watched. I would have said 200 instead of 10, but I didn't want to push the "reality" envelope.
I won't pretend to remember all the punches, but I think I put on a good show.

Anyway, that established a pattern, and a recurring theme with this one guy, my brother, of me needing to prove that, yes in fact I can take punches in the belly from him, and repeatedly trying to do it, and failing. Other girls could be imported to watch that, and they were, with each of Peggy's two successors, one a 14-year-old Catholic school girl with freckles and braces and a well-built body. The other her friend, who I don't even know if she went to school at all, but was very mature for her age.

It was even available if I ever was sent to fetch my brother home for dinner from one of his friends' houses, and one of their pretty sisters happened to be there, too.

Unfortunately it didn't last until my brother started bringing his own hot girlfriends around.
But I formed another relationship. About a year later, when I was 16. I had two close female friends, Lisa and Karen, who I hung out with constantly. Both had long, straight brunette hair, like girls did in the mid-70s. Lisa was olive-skinned and plump in the hips, but it was always her, not slim, pale Karen, who wore the bellyshirts and hiphuggers. Karen noticed how much I liked Lisa's look, and she started wearing them, too, when we met outside school. She told me her parents never would let her go to school dressed like that, though.

Anyway, as part of some after-school group or project we all three took part in, we acquired a hanger-on. His name was John, and he was one of the school misfits. He was short, nasally, bleary-eyed, sandy-haired, and lacked social grace. He took a liking to the girls, and they tolerated him with amusement, and he soon started sitting as a fourth at our lunch table instead of eating by himself.

I let him. I let him start hanging out with us after school, too. Because I saw the chance. And soon I had it going. This little loser was going to have the time of his life feeling like a big, strong, athletic, capable man, putting a much bigger opponent down with his bare fists. And doing it repeatedly. While the pretty girls watched him do it.


Bellywimp Fool

The 'happily-married' housewife came home with her husband on her arm and they walked right into a house burglary in progress in their living room! Then she got to stand there helplessly while the lone thief, who looked like a kid of 14, made a bellywimp fool of her husband by pounding his belly with punches. Seems the local thug had just "happened to drop by" to raid her jewel box. And, when discovered, bellywhomp her man.

... It seems the wife and the punch-thug have been seen together lately in intimate conversation ....

Femme Fatale

My woman is the belly-bait, to lure me with her navel, to goad me, the soft-bellied wimp boy, into a fight I know I must lose, and which I do lose, by a belly-beating.

She knows the words "what's wrong, can't you take it in the belly?" will compel him to stagger back out there and take more punches to his stomach, in a hopeless need to prove to her that he can.


I was trapped. "Sure," I said, almost breathlessly. The girls abruptly broke up their tight circle and dispersed to the eight-points of an invisible "ring" in the sand with Tim and I as its center. They clapped and cheered like pom-pom girls.

And it all suddenly took on the atmosphere of ritual. The boister of a second before hardened into cold order. The girls, too young to have unlearned their instincts, realize they are witnessing the ancient act, old and essential as life, of one male of the pack displaying the inferiority of another. Saner heads do not prevail. In a crowd of 8 or 10 adults, one would have stepped forward and put a stop to two males about to fight with their fists. But not one teen-age girl would. Not one in 200. Because they understand the animalistic power of this scene, which has been acted out for their sake for millions of years. They watched, detached but closely attentive, like the herd of does watching two bucks lock horns.

"What rules?" I asked feebly.

For an answer Tim quick-steps toward me, unbends his elbow, and sinks a solid fist plump into my stomach. "There's no rules in a belly-beating," he laughs.

I hear my mouth utter a guttural "OOUFF!" I feel the shock and pain of being violated, then something swells rapidly inside me like a balloon, an ache that crowds out everything.

He whomps me with another belly-slammer. No breath is left to lose, so the voice that comes out of me makes an empty sound like "ullll." The next thing I know my eyes are trying to focus on my fingers, which are splayed on the dark sand. I'm down on my knees, head hanging, mouth limp and wet, sucking air. My belly is a heavy, cold knot. Tim stands over me and begins to taunt me.

No one did anything. The girls watching may despise the bully who punched me, and she may be warmly sympathetic to my suffering, but make no mistake, she will never be able to see me again without envisioning the sight of me twitching and helpless and vulnerable, clutching my punched belly. And it will make her distant toward me.

It's worse than a punch in the face: then at least you can will yourself not to cry. A fist to the gut rips out your ability to curb your reaction. At least it did to me. I did the slow, rhythmic, violent dance of the belly-whomped. A stasis between the in-sucking force, which folded me in on myself, and the out-thrusting spasms of a diaphragm trying to breathe -- the brain screams a command to the stunned diaphragm: "expand!" and the whole body resonates with it.

I felt the futile kicking of my feet (as though the basic fear-instinct of "Run!" had somehow been the only part of my brain unaffected by the pain of the punch). It turned me into a fool: puffy, suffering, jerky, softbodied anybody's bully-meat. No one who ever saw me that way could forget it.

Saturday, January 3, 2009


by Belly Boy

So is D--- really going to challenge "Ironfist?"

Uh-huh. I so want to watch that go down.

Pot-bellied D---?

Uh-huh, and it's all because of me. All because of my pretty belly-button. He said he'd do anything -- swore he'd do anything --- if I let him kiss my belly-button.

So this was what you told him to do! You witch!

Oh I totally set this up, just so we could have some fun. I picked "Ironfist" especially, and I even wrote him a secret admirer note, anonymous, cooing about how I'd luuuuuuv to see him show off with some belly-slammers.


by Belly Boy


You want to see my belly-button, don't you? Perv. Freak. You want to stare at my belly-button? Fuck off. I'm in a different class than you. You're a wimp.

Tell you what, bellywimp. You want to see my belly-button? Then go fight my brother. Then I'll stand up and put my hands on my hips and punch my belly out so you can worship my belly-button. But only after you take 20 punches from my boyfriend. I already told him how hot it would make me to see him hit you right in the belly. Go challenge him.


What's the matter? Can't stand up straight? I loved watching you get beat up. And I enjoyed it even more because I knew the only reason you were out there, soft-bellied wimp, was because I told you to do it. Ordered you to go out and pick a fight with a man twice as tough and skilled as you will ever be. Told you it was the only way to get a look at my belly-button. Yeah I knew you were going to get punched out. I told him all about your weak belly, your soft belly. And I told him to punch you in the belly for me. Knowing it was for me turned me on. And yeah I told you you could worship my bellybutton if you fought him, but I'm having second thoughts about that now, so fuck off.