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.