(Day 39)

I’ve been having more trouble sleeping.

I had accidentally broke some cultural taboo and disrespected Ali by offhandedly waving my deektoob at him when I was telling him about baseball. He became totally cold to me and acted like I was dead to him after that. He kicked me out of his bedroom. My consort sleep sack has now been moved out of Ali’s bedroom into Ahmadi’s bedroom. I don’t know. It’s weird. After he kicked me out, I missed sleeping on the floor by his bed.

I guess a floor is a floor, but Ahmadi is just somehow the less cool one of the two brothers. Ahmadi helps me wriggle into the sleep sack at night in the same way Ali did. He zips it up and fist-mits me and straps me in, all the same way. But, it is just different.

Part of the trouble I have now is that Ahmadi snores. I was having enough challenges with the complete immobilization in the sack, the oppressive heat build-up, and the hard, hard hardons that keep me up in the night. In addition to all that, I now also contend with his frequent loud snoring. I lie there underneath him, sometimes hours, wishing to Jesus Holy Christ that I could just get up and give him a poke in the ribs to make him turn over. It’s like some kind of cruel sadistic torture to make me listen to that every night.

Ahmadi took me back to the office of his Cypriot doctor, because I was getting too insane and hostile and difficult to deal with. He drove me to the doctor’s office. I had to have a blindfold over my eyes so that I would not know where I was in relationship to it. He kneeled me down in the waiting room of the doctor’s office before he took off the blindfold. I immediately recognized the same room I had passed through before. Now it is over a month later, and I realize that I now am just like that naked guy kneeling on the floor that I saw on the first visit.

The doctor examined me again. Unfortunately, she was happy with my penis. It was scarring up and healing well. Great news, she said – I was cleared for more dick piercings! They proceeded right away, because that was obviously the solution to all my problems. Nobody asked me how I felt about it – same as last time. She zonked me out with more of that folk medicine that makes me compliant. Then, they went right to work on me again.

The first thing they did was fix the problem with the little bit of slack in my dick cords. After having my dick shaft stretched out for a month, it had adjusted. There was less tension on it. So, they shortened each cord and then pulled hard on each of them to reattach. I was now stretched out an additional half inch longer down my deektoob with my shaft pulled tight like a banjo string. Then, they pinched together the little bit of remaining loose skin on the underside of my shaft and infibulated me with three skewers - near the beginning in front of my balls, the middle, and the end of my shaft just behind my knob. The doctor said the skewers would give my painfully overstretched cock more support. I wouldn’t be able to get really hard and stay that way for long, because it would stretch in too many tender places and hurt too much. My problems being fussy and uncooperative when I’m horny were solved.


(Day 42)

I am being cooperative. I am being cooperative. I am being cooperative.

A Cypriot consort is supposed to be good at doing housework during the times when he isn’t getting more skewers put through his cock or being walked like a dog with his tits on a leash or getting pissed on or humiliated in a hundred other ways.

I was down on the floor cleaning it again. With this chain on me all the time, the only way I can do this efficiently is to wipe the floor dry with a buffing cloth in my hands while I wash the floor with a wet sponge soaked in water with wood soap. For this purpose, the far end of my deektoob is clipped to a chain link up on my chest with a carabiner to prevent it dragging around on the floor as I move. If I am kneeling on my knees on the floor, then I can just reach my two hands shackled together around the tube and grasp the buffing cloth between my legs to buff the floor. So, you ask — how do I also wash the floor with the wet sponge with my hands full? Well, the sponge is mounted on a handle attached to a bit between my teeth strapped to my face in the traditional Cypriot way. It is a circular sponge with a wide circumference that is just small enough to insert it into a soap-filled wash bucket. I put my face into the wash bucket to wet the sponge. Then, I lean forward on my knees and press into the floor between my legs with my fingers and the buffing cloth to balance myself until my face with the sponge attached to my mouth rests on the floor with the soap water squishing out. I make a tripod on the floor with my knees and my face. My bare ass is my highest point.

I can’t sit down anymore. Ahmadi explained this to me.

He said, “Must try to understand, silly. For woman, penis is frightening thing, also exciting thing to enjoy, but before, first, is penetrating invader. For young delicate inexperienced girl first consort taken must be to enjoy, no scare. Must be well trained, chained, skewered, tit-leashed, broken, eager to lick and serve, never aggress invade.”

“Um. Yeah. OK.”

He was giving me this stern “don’t ever hurt her” talk, and I got it, but it seemed to me they’d pretty much neutered me harmless already, so what now?

That’s when their imam came to visit the house for the first time. He gave me the same stern talk about how I must respect the woman who owns me and appreciate how intimidating it must be for her to be in the presence of my skewered, stretched out, dick tubed manhood. Then they all concluded explaining why it is so necessary to do what they were going to do now. They made me bend over and squat.

“You need to demonstrate that you know firsthand how intimate and vulnerable a woman feels when her most private body parts are penetrated by a male,” said the imam.

With my face on the floor and my butt in the air, the imam prayed to god while he worked around my ass to make a kind of a guiche ladder with three rings closely spaced together on the skin directly in front of my anus and then another set of three closely space rings that hurt more on the other side of my anus in between my butt cheeks. All of that happened quickly, and at this point I was like, whatever, more piercing. At least they are not on my dick.

But, the butt rings were just an anchor to secure my Reminder, which is a traditional Cypriot thing that is to remind the consort constantly what it must feel like for a woman to be invaded by cock. It is an object that is crafted starting from a corn cob joined to a gourd. I couldn’t see behind me because of the collar and wondered what they were doing when I suddenly felt pressure and pushing at my butthole with no warning or preparation. I don’t even want to tell you how I first protested and then yelled like a stuck pig while the three of them wrestled me and pushed and worked the thing in.

It probably took a solid hour to get my butthole to open. It felt like a log up my ass. When it had been worked in pushing and twisting to a certain point it, sort of, popped into place with the lips of my ass closing over a narrower end part. The Reminder had three rings above and below it that locked onto each of the three rings of my guiche ladder. The piercings stretched and pulled like a motherfucker. The Reminder could only be removed by Ahmadi or Ali by unlocking it from my butt rings. A multi-colored festive wooden knob extended out a few inches from it with a decorative garland. It looks a bit like a doorknob-sized Mexican piñata coming out of my butt.

The imam blessed me and said that I had a good voice. He suggested they should bring me around to the mosque. I might be a good addition to the chorus for weekend prayer services, because my voice goes up to higher octaves than what some other guys could manage. Anyway. I can’t sit down anymore, because of the doorknob in my ass.

So, like I said, I am cleaning the floor by wetting it with a sponge on my face and buffing it on my knees with my hands between my legs. I make a tripod with my two knees and my face with my butt in the air. And, sticking up out of my butt is the doorknob end of my Reminder. My knees hurt and my lower back is aching from scooting along pushing my face into the floor back-and-forth to soap it while feeling with my fingers and buffing between my legs to dry the wetness that trails behind my face below my chest and torso. I can also feel the wetness with my knees if I am not buffing it up well enough. It is exhausting work, but I think I am almost done in this room.

Then as I turn around at the end of a pass across the floor, I see Ali’s bare feet go bounding past in the periphery of my line of site just above the top edge of my face sponge. He stops in front of the refrigerator where I was just cleaning and opens it to grab his jar of olives, which are his favorite snack. Then, he traipses to the other room to play his video game.

“Silly, clean that up.” he says.

He came from outside in the back yard. The dirt on his feet has left clearly visible footprints all across the floor where I’ve just been working. I am being cooperative. I am being cooperative. I dunk my face in the wash water again and push off with my knees to follow the trail of footprints back across the floor.

He hardly talks to me at all anymore nor spends any time with me now that he is training and practicing full time for this tournament he is in. I don’t really know much about it, but I think it happens soon.

When I get back across the room again to the end of the room where his tracks end at a carpet, I keep my face to the floor but cautiously lift my eyes to see what he’s doing. His back is toward me on a lounge chair. He is playing World of Warcraft on the big screen TV again. I can see his game world on the screen. His character is some type of badass bare-chested orc warrior. That seems very appropriate for him.

He finishes his fight with some octopus thing. Then, I see that he summons his magical mount. It is a naked shimmering pixie with fairy wings. He hops up with his massive orc body onto the shoulders of the little pixie and makes whip cracking sounds with a knotted flail to urge it up struggling to fly with its little wings furiously beating to lift him into the sky.

“Up! Go silly!,” he says.

I go back to cleaning the floor immediately, thinking he’d caught me goofing off. Then I realize that he was actually talking to his pixie mount, which he had strangely named after me. So, I cautiously watched some more.

They landed in a little town. Ali hitched me up to a post beside some other magic mounts – including a mini-dragon, a glowing winged penis, and a purple unicorn. I saw him walk into a building with a big sign above the door – “The Mighty Massive Gay Orc Bar”. Wow! No wonder he plays that game so much. He is straight with everyone here, but he is a homosexual orc in his game. I went back to cleaning, because I knew he would beat my pixie ass for real if he saw me watching.


(Day 45)

Today is the big day of Ali’s güres championship tournament.  Ali and Ahmadi are allowing me to go with them and watch this time.

Ahmadi warns me sternly, “Silly do not disgrace. Is honor you go.”

He also tells me that Madison will be there! Right. Of course she would be there. It is her brother’s championship tournament.

Then Ahmadi further warns me, “Silly remember. Do not look Madison or talk Madison. Is still Time of Waiting for you. Not yet acceptable.”

I start to feel happy and very nervous to learn she will be there. She will see me. I hope I look OK. I don’t want her to see me and think that I’m lame or pathetic or uncool. I’m doing all this for her. I’m becoming her consort so that I can serve her and worship her and lap up her bath water like a thirsty dog. That’s the plan.

I can put up with the chains and the dick piercings and the Reminder in my butt. I just want to finally get to be with her. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen her. I still keep trying to imagine her when my dick tries to get hard at night and when I have to lick Ahmadi’s hairy feet and hairy ass. All the man hair gets matted and curled around my tongue, and it gets harder and harder to close my eyes and pretend that it’s Madison. I’m starting to have failures of imagination. I’m not supposed to see her yet or even look for her, but I feel like I really just need to see her. Just even an accidental glance.

What if she thinks I look stupid? She’s never really seen me naked in chains before. Do I look too pale and skinny? I hope my zits aren’t too noticeable. I hope my wiener at least looks big enough now that they’ve been tensioning it. I haven’t been able to see it down there. So weird now to be led out in front of all these people attending the tournament. They can see everything, but I can’t see what I look like below the neck.

There is a wide open outdoor meadow with a rich thick carpet of green grass that comes up a few inches higher than the tops of my ankles. I know that because I can feel the soft grass blades grazing my lower legs as I hobble forward. The grass is moist and dewy. I can feel the dew drops wetting my feet, and the moisture accumulates between by toes and cools my feet even though the sun coming up in my face is very bright and promises to grow hot as the day progresses.

I can hear my ankle chain clinking while the vertical chain going up between my legs is also clinking and knocking into my knees. I’ve never had this chain off, and I’ve never yet found a way to move in it with any dignity. Ahmadi is walking up ahead of me with the tit-leash dangling off his wrist, yanking out my tits repeatedly to make me keep pace with him. My tits have gotten bigger and stretchier. Can Madison see my tits? I hope she’ll think my tits are cool. I’ve been told that big stretchy tits look hot on a consort.

There is a wooden open-air stadium beside this green grassy meadow. It is fresh gleaming white-washed wood. There is large green cloth awning stretched tight over posts projecting above the stadium to provide shade. Inside the stadium there are white benches. Spectators have brought cushions and are sitting on the benches in small groups to watch and cheer. When they said I could watch I assumed that I would be like one of those spectators in the bleachers watching; however, Ahmadi is leading me out to a place in the field where I am in full view of all the spectators.

I was led out to a pole erected in the middle of the meadow. My tit leash was unclamped off of my tits, and I was remanded over to the tournament official who was in charge of the pole. There were some other consorts also there around the pole. I immediately recognized Daisy Purple Dick from the park. I hobbled over next to him.

“Hey man, how’s it goin’?” I said.

He said, “Hey squirt. I remember you. Glad you could make it.”

I didn’t recognize any of the other consorts. There were six others; so, eight of us in all. They were all situated similar to me. They all had wide conical Cypriot collars in varying colors. They all had pierced skewered wieners stretched out inside deektoobs. I was the only one with a Reminder in my butt.

Going around the circle, on the other side of Daisy Purple Dick is Ringlets, who is bald except for long curly sidelocks of hair dangling down in front of his ears. Next to him is a short stocky guy who looks sort of like a naked Kim Jong Un. He has a small dick and not much body hair. Now, the consort hitched up next to Kim is just truly disturbing. I can’t see his face at all, because he is wearing a full face Russian military style gas mask with a hose attached at the mouth hole ending in a filter canister dangling in front of his chest. His skin is bronze. All I can see of him is his eyes inside of the mask. And, … his eyes look crazy… I just need to stop looking at him. Next to Gas Mask is Blond Jesus. He has shoulder length blond hair with a full face beard and a crown of thorns on his head. Next after him comes Sweet Pea. He is all the time suckling on a pacifier and has a pink baby bonnet on his head. He has thick curly red pubes and chest hair, and his skin already looks red from the sun. Finally, after going all around the circle the consort on the other side of me from Daisy is a kid about my age probably. I can’t get a good look at his face, because he has a dark colored nylon stocking pulled down all over his face. The toe end of the stocking is waving in the breeze from the top of his head. I’ll call him Panty Hose.

The pole official was going around a circle hitching up each one of us in turn to the base of the wooden pole. The base of the pole had cables coming out of it through holes along its circumference. The cables extended out away from the pole about six feet where they bifurcated each into sets of massive industrial strength tit clamps. I saw that even Daisy Purple Dick winced when these things were put on him. Before I knew it, the pole official got to me and bit the two giant heavy spring-loaded clamps into my tits also. I tried not make any noise, but they were really uncomfortable. I started to wease and breathe hard, but I controlled it because I didn’t want the other consorts to think I was a pathetic newb.

I was now handed two large wooden mallets. They looked like croquet mallets, except the handles were short with straps that loop around your wrists. I held the mallets by their handles in my two hands, which were, as always, manacled together to the front of my belly chain.

At the risk of being uncool I quietly asked Daisy, “Hey, umm, remind me what we do with these mallets?”

He smiled and by way of answering hoisted his mallets and leaned slightly backward to angle his deektoob higher. Then, he went:


He started banging out a practice rhythm with his mallets against his deektoob. The long round plastic tube resonated, and the sound from it projected out into the meadow. All the other consorts started warming up their instruments too. We began all together to jam with our deektoobs while the athletes warmed up on the field around us.

I saw Ali now coming out onto the field along with the other pehlivans in his cadre. He was bare chested and barefoot, wearing only his wide brown leather trousers called kispet. His name is stenciled with metal studs on his backside. He glistened from head to toe with olive oil. Each pehlivan was introduced by the Cazgir to cheers and applause. The Cazgir then summoned all of the boys to manly valor in the name of Allah. I didn’t really understand all of it, but I saw the light grow in his eyes to answer this call. I hadn’t seen this serious side of his nature before.

Ali crossed his arms down in front of his body and linked hands with his opponent to the right. His chosen opponent also linked hands with Ali to the left. They embraced each other side-on before fighting, which seemed so strange to me.

Suddenly, all the pairs separate. Ali and the others all march out into the field. Ali kneels on a knee, touches the earth, rises up, then raises his hand to the sky.

       I come from the earth.

       I return to the earth.

       It is from the earth I get my power.

All the pehlivans start to wander in the field on a symbolic hero’s journey, each waiting to encounter his opponent. I am fascinated, because I don’t realize they are actually waiting for us.

“Oaawh!” I come back to the reality of my own situation when the pole official starts rounding our circle and smacking us from behind with a cane. What am I supposed to do?  Daisy is shuffling backward, and he explains it to me.

“Pull back, kid. We have to ring the bell to start the matches.”

All of us are shuffling backward. Gas Mask and Kim Yong Un aren’t moving; so, the pole official concentrates a beating with the cane on the two of them. A metal doughnut around the base of the pole begins to rise. My tits are stretching so far out they could go on their own hero’s journey. The combined pull of all of our tits in unison around the pole is moving the doughnut up the pole as we shuffle backward.

But, it isn’t enough. I see it now. There is a bell up near the top of the pole. If we all yank really hard with our tits in synchrony as a team, then we could drive the metal doughnut up into the bell to ring it. The crowd in the bleachers is restless and starts to whistle and boo us. Others come to help the pole official, because there are so many naked asses around the pole and only the one arm and cane to whip with. Nature abhors a vacuum.

In another moment I am being whipped on my ass and legs by another official while Daisy, Panty Hose, Ringlets, Jesus, and even poor innocent Sweet Pea are also set upon by others with paddles and strong arms. They make us all dance like marionettes with our tits on a string. The heavy metal doughnut jerks spastically higher still not hitting the bell.  The whippers and paddlers see we are getting close, so they all start to chant a song to whip us all together in timed strikes. Previously it was random hitting. Finally, when they start to whip our asses in time, we consequently all lean in or away with the same rhythm.

And then, the doughnut strikes the bell!


The crowd applauds and cheers. When the whippers finally stop, we are all red-faced and gasping. My tits are out so far, I think I actually saw them over the rim of my collar! I could see the effect on the others. Every one of them was grotesquely inhumanly tit-stretched.

And, we remained that way for the duration of the bout. They stopped whipping us for a while, but we were not allowed to move back toward the center to recover. We kept the metal doughnut high on the pole, because we would be required to sound the bell again promptly when the referee signaled this round of competition over. We were all around the circle leaning backward away from the poll on our heels to keep the thing hoisted. My nipples were actually holding me upright to keep from falling on my ass. I suddenly appreciated the value of all the tit strengthening exercises I’d been doing. There’s no way I could survive this without my giant wide-gauge nipples.

The pole official with the cane told us to resume pounding out rhythm on our deektoobs now that we were finished hoisting the doughnut. She started poking me in my ribs to get back into rhythm.  I don’t know who started it going, but we were soon all banging out “We are The Champions” by Queen on our deektoobs.


At this point in my life as a consort-in-waiting I had not learned anything yet about the proper art of drumming musically with mallets on my penis-and-ball tube. Through trial and error and watching the other consorts I would soon learn much more. There was first the seemingly simple matter of following an established rhythm, keeping the beat, and not going off-beat. I don’t think that I am especially untalented rhythmically. I’ve been to dances before; so, I know that I can get in a corner on the dance floor, find a groove in my mind, and boogie my feet in time. Usually I would do some jazz fingers in the air with my hands during the chorus. I used to be good at that.

But, it was more difficult in these circumstances. I couldn’t bounce around and boogie my feet to get down on it, because I had to keep them braced hard in the ground to anchor the heavy weight pulling out my tits. I started getting a lot of the attention again from the pole official who was circling behind us all the time acting as our conductor.

“Oww, goddamnit!, Oww, oww, oww!”

I thought I was on-beat with everyone else, until that cane suddenly laid in on the soft backs of my upper thighs in time to the beat that I was supposed to be on versus the beat that I thought I was on. The shock and surprise of that caused me to immediately unlock my knees and maneuver away to evade it. I lost the beat entirely now running away from the cane. My nipples retracted and snapped back into my chest, because slack developed in my line. All of the other consorts immediately started to complain loudly, cursing me, because their tits were all pulling out off their chests even farther now that I wasn’t carrying my fair share of the load. Panty Hose was the first to turn on me, establishing to the others that he is more cool than me even though he is the youngest, least experienced one.

“Hey, get your titties back on line, you stupid asshole! Why’d I have to be next to this pathetic rooky?”

“Sorry,” I said, backing up away until I maxed out my tits again going in the direction of the cane.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? Cock sucking faggot!”

He turned really hostile, and nobody else defended me — not even Daisy. I started again attempting to beat my tube in syncopation with the stinging cane strikes on my thighs to get back on-beat. The cane official just kept saying, “No. No. No. No. No. …” striking me with the cane precisely just about a quarter-beat off from where I was. I couldn’t get it! I was starting to panic. I couldn’t get away from the cane and couldn’t get it either, and I started gasping and crying in front of everyone and getting even worse.

Daisy Purple Dick tried to help me. He said to me, “Listen. Tension is the enemy of the percussion player. You need to somehow relax and find a point of focus.”

Oh my god! How am I supposed to relax with all this? This is horrible and unbearable. I can’t feel relaxed about it. How? Find a point of focus. Where? I scanned my eyes outside the circle at the bleachers and the meadow. Where’s Madison? If I can find her and focus on her, maybe I can get through this. But, I couldn’t distinguish individual people in the bleachers. I’m near-sighted, and I don’t have my glasses anymore. Ali took them. There he is in the middle distance out in the meadow.

Ali is locked in battle with his pehlivan opponent. He has been locked in battle with him ceaselessly ever since we rang the bell. Nothing exists for him. They are like two bare chested gods contesting at the beginning of the world. Under the rules of this fight they might stay locked up this way together for up 30 minutes to decide a winner. Several other pairs of combatants have already stopped contesting with a victor more quickly determined in this first round.

I wouldn’t want to insult their tradition by over-simplifying, but the deciding factor in resolving every bout is essentially simple to understand. In each pairing, the wrestler – the pehlivan – who first exposes his navel to heaven loses, and his opponent is the victor. Ali and his opponent are standing locked together head-to-head with glistening backs to the sky and their navels pointed toward the ground in a classic tie-up position exactly like what Greco-Roman wrestlers would do.  They are stepping forward and backward, then pushing into each other, angling in slow circles, grasping each other alternating over or under one shoulder, gripping with fingers and thumb together behind the head and neck, head-locked, sometimes forehead against forehead, sometimes angling the wrist and hand and fingers side-on, as if the whole hand were a blade, and quickly sharply chopping down and forward with that blade on the back of the head to make the opponent lose position in the midst of a step, falling forward, potentially becoming vulnerable.

“Ah yes, I see you finally found the beat! Is good now. Don’t fall out again.” The cane official finally stopped hitting me and moved on to other prey.

I was just beginning to learn all there is to know about musical dick tube striking. There is a proper sort-of embouchure for have to get the most resonant sound and tonal quality.  The percussionist should lean backward, arch the back, and also thrust the hips forward to elevate the deektoob and aim the open penis end toward the sky rather than toward the ground. Don’t try to squeeze your upper thighs together either side of the tube at the base where your balls are inside. That is a common mistake that dampens the sound and kills the resonance. When I looked over at Daisy and around at some of the others that are good at this, I was amazed how they were managing to stand balanced with their weight on their heels, their hips thrust out all the way while bending over backwards. Daisy’s back was arched so far that his chest pointed up toward the sky, and he could almost look backward behind himself.  You might imagine that his giant nipples would also point into the sky like arrows, but remember that the cords that hoist the doughnut on the pole are anchored to pulleys at the base of the pole; so, leaning and arching backward so extremely caused his giant milk cow nipples to bend at a right angle off his chest and pull tight horizontally parallel to his torso.

Another good habit for any dick percussionist is to shake out the hands and wrists well before beginning to play. Tension is the enemy of the percussion player. Be sure to place the mallets in your hands with the proper fulcrum and strike the elevated deektoob at its base centered directly over your two snares. “Snares” is the term we consorts use in musician’s lingo to describe the closed end of the tube where our balls are smushed against the inner wall.

Another trick I learned from Daisy is that once he’d arched way back with his chest up and his tits stretched down his body, he could then hoist his deektoob up through between the two cables on each of his tits and rest the open penis-end of the tube on the junction of the two tit cables where it makes a “Y.” Then, he could actually relieve some of his extra kinked-over nipple pain by leaning slightly forward again to a better tit-stretching angle while still keeping his dick-end hoisted high in the air balanced on top of the cable junction. I started to realize that Daisy Purple Dick is smart and amazingly talented for a consort.

I am nowhere good enough to arch over backwards looking behind myself with my tits pulled down my body in opposition like that. It’s like Daisy is Itzhak Perlman and I am a fourth-grade violin player standing next to him doing “Hot-Crossed Buns.” And, I don’t want to even try that. I want to keep seeing what happens with Ali.

They have gone for so long now just front head-locked and circling. It is almost twenty minutes into the first round. To an unpracticed eye it looks like a stalemate with no progress either guy. But, you can start to see the strain build up in the muscles of their shoulders, arms, and legs. Sweat is beginning to drip down off them both in places. It forms rivulets down the middle of Ali’s back and drips down along the contours of his ribs. It collects on his loins and his belly. When his stomach heaves in and out drawing breath, the sweat comes loose pouring off into the grass. His sweat is a weapon. He is becoming even more slippery.

The other guy breaks first. He jerks back out of the headlock and immediately slaps Ali in the face with his free hand to make him break stance and come up vulnerable to a take-down attack. Ali does break stance and come up, but only a little. A practiced eye would see that Ali’s response to the sudden face slap is more invitation than surprised mistake, but his opponent doesn’t see it. The stance of Ali’s body now says, “OK. Come in and take me down then, bitch.”

The guy steps in fast, ducks his head under one of Ali’s armpits, and starts to wrap his arms around Ali’s torso, coming around behind and under Ali. Once he had shot in underneath Ali’s arm with his head behind he could either drive Ali off his feet into the ground or, even more dangerously, he could plant his feet, squat, and try to lift Ali off of the ground from behind with his arms locked around Ali’s hips or else grabbing hold of Ali’s kispet. The opponent could then execute a scary, frightening throw on Ali which would certainly send him flying through the air with his navel toward the sky — instant defeat. Or, his opponent could now demonstrate superiority less dramatically by taking Ali up completely off the ground and simply holding him there for a period of time, legs and arms flailing helplessly.

And, although it is widely considered unsportsmanlike, his opponent could even plunge both arms all the way down the front of Ali’s kispet from behind and keep driving down toward his feet to yank Ali’s leather pants down to his ankles, thus exposing him shockingly naked with his ass and dick popping out in front of the crowd. Any pehlivan who allowed himself to be so humiliated publicly in a fight would not only be instantly disqualified but would also risk losing his status as a man in the eyes of the Cypriot community. As everyone knows, only consorts parade around naked in public with their junk on display for all to see.

All of these possibilities might have flashed through this opponent’s mind, but it didn’t happen that way. In the next instant he tried to go for a lift from behind by squatting down, face and chest flat against Ali’s lower back. He started to reach down inside the front of Ali’s leather pants. Ali was by now too slick with both olive oil and his own sweat to risk merely locking arms around his waist and hips to lift him. The guy knew enough to go for a solid grip on the inside Ali’s kispet to lift him without slipping. However, Ali caught his opponent’s wrists going down toward the waistline of his kispet, making his hands into a “V” shape below his navel with his thumbs hooked in behind the other guy’s wrists. The opponent’s fingers started to dive down into Ali’s pants, but Ali immediately popped his hips out to thrust his two hip bones into his own thumbs that were hooked behind the opponent’s wrists. The sudden explosive hip maneuver forced the guys wrists and hands forward and out from the front of Ali’s trousers. In the exact same instant that the hands came out, Ali lowered his center of gravity and spun in!

Ali’s slick upper body was greased like butter with no resistance for the brief instant when those hands were pushed out away. Meanwhile his fighter had been positioning to do the lift, which is a maneuver that would have required him to stand up and arch backward so that he could hold Ali flailing in the air above his own hips. He was moving toward a stance opposite of the former crouching downward-facing position to defend against a takedown, because he was not expecting a sudden reversal and counter-move. Ali so quickly spun 180? around even as the bony knob on his right shoulder spiraled down aiming to shoot through just below the center of other guy’s hips. He crouched low and drove the shoulder forward straight into the guy’s nuts, extending his legs out as if releasing a coiled spring. Ali’s primary goal was to counter with a driving takedown that would tackle him down flat on his back to pin him. But, Ali’s shoulder launching right through the other pehlivan’s nuts had the additional satisfying benefit that his opponent was already incapacitated by spectacular radiating testicular pain before he even landed. They finished on the ground chest to chest with Ali stretched out in between the other guy’s legs pinning him. His belly faced the sky in a crushing defeat.

The whole crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Ali and his opponent were the last two fighters still contesting in this round. Everyone was watching them both, and the ending was sensational! Ali had never had a more glorious moment in competition at this level, and he seemed destined to become a champion. I saw him extend a hand down to his opponent to help him up from the ground where he lay gasping and holding his nuts. He put an arm around the other guy and helped him limp off the field.

I thought it was the most amazing thing I ever saw.

 

Kevin's Path

Top


Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus