Victory Over the Mammaries

They’re so big. So so big. I don’t have a good enough vocabulary as of yet to describe them better than that. Big. Very big even. My hands are so tiny they can’t even cover a third of one of those fleshy round masses.

It’s embarrassing how tiny my hands really are, with their little stubby fingers flicking and grabbing with no idea of what they’re grabbing for. They’re so damn mindless, just reaching out there with aimless comprehension. Once in a while they get a hold of something of no importance, another finger perhaps, her finger for instance, and they just hold on. This can’t be normal to have such uncooperative fingers, flailing about haplessly. If I could just control them a little better I could finally take a real grab, a full bodied grab, at those monstrosities hanging in front of me at all times. She thinks I’m being playful, they all do, with their witnessing eyes and their big dumb functioning hands, but how I want to grab a hold of them, grab a hold with ferocity, grab a hold with power, grab a hold of those bouncing sculptures and never let go.

I’ve been living in this state for some time now. The exact amount of time I’m still not sure. I can’t count very high, probably to about twelve and though I’ve heard of other numerals out there, where they land on the number line I’m still not sure. I know there are two of these figures that sit in front of me for the better part of the day, and at night, though not in front of me, they are not far off, for they impede on my dreams as well.

In the dreams they are bursting forth into this field I’m lying in. The big yellow ball is out, high above the green rockets and silver circles that are around me. It is quite pretty, peaceful, with the air whipping around, but in a calm way, not bothersome so that I would have to cover my face because my eyes were drying out. No, nothing like that, just enough movement to flip over the hair on my arm I guess you could say. There are even some sounds coming from the distance, lost in the green and brown arrows that are pulling at the blue above. Big white pillows, fluffy and forward, float high and far away, listening to the same sound I am. I know the sound because when I am taken outside in the light of the day I hear it. I hear it all the time actually, and I’m still not sure where it comes from. I’ve asked the woman what it is, but she refuses to answer me with anything more than some weird tasting piece of plastic that I have to suck on for extended periods of time. If I didn’t know any better, which I guess I don’t, my entire life seems to be filled with some form of sucking. Where this will take me in life I’m not quite sure, but I can only assume right now that it’ll lead to some sort of fortune.

So there I am. In the spice filled field, smelling the senses of my skin, when all of a sudden there they appear from nowhere. The two mammaries come spilling out into the open from and undisclosed location, it could have been from the rockets, it could have been from the white feathers, and it could have just as easily been from behind me, for I am lying down and I have very limited peripheral vision as of yet. Sadly, my neck has the same problems as my fingers, just bouncing around and slumping with no sense of direction or purpose, but wherever they come from, they come fast.

The two objects are over taking me. The pink circles at the center are enormous, the size of planets I haven’t ever seen. They come at me with a rapidity I’d never witnessed before. I once spilled some hot liquid on myself, it didn’t hurt or burn or anything, it ruined my favorite red shirt, which I was none to happy about, but I was okay. However, that lady, with those big skin colored milk jugs, came rushing to me with a look of a clown, screeching fear. I wanted to tell her that while I was upset about the possible stain to the red shirt, there was really no reason for the dramatics, I had a blue of the same style that I was quite fond of, and which brought out my eyes a great deal more than the red. But she rushed and screamed all the same, just as the giant asteroids are rushing at me in the dream, though now it is silent in the field, not a single noise, not even the tweets and whistles from the mystery singers. It all just disappeared.

What had been a pleasant afternoon became an eerie, if not terrifying, outing. Impending doom is upon me as the objects close their distance. They are just yards away, and the red ovals become missiles that shoot out like magenta fire from their soft pink beds, both at the same time, heat seeking missiles, after me, after my heat, after my manhood.

So that’s what this was all about, I thought. Those missiles and their bearers, their rocket fuel filled milk holders, were coming to take away what I had worked not at all for, but was born with and though having no recollection of their purpose, its purpose, all of it’s purpose, I was not about to let some card carrying thief take it away from me. A fight, an epic battle, to end the ages if need be, would therefore need to be had. I thought to myself, if only I could stand up, or really do anything but kick my legs and arms impatiently with no useful results.

I lay there helpless, waiting to lose my manhood. It was going to be taken, by force no doubt, and I was helpless to do anything about it. Life was over. Everything I had ever protected, that and my stuffed dog George, was about to be stolen from me as I waited idly by and watched the raping of my loins. I couldn’t help but cry, even thinking about it the next morning I had to hold back the salt drops. Then miraculously, just as the missiles, ever so bright, brighter and redder and pointier than ever, were about to over take me, George, my trusty hound dog, huge floppy ears as long as his body, flying in the wind, jumped out of no where and pounced on the peach sweat of the mammaries.

George was furious, I was furious, the air we both breathed was furious, and those orbs with their magenta fire, turned yellow and weak and hid in themselves as George, a giant among giants, wrestled them with his innocent stuffed paws, till the glands could handle no more and they retreated back to the empty unsuspecting world where henceforth they came.

The battle was not epic, no, far from, but it was a battle, and with the look in the George’s eyes and the way those missiles flared one more time before disappearing over the ridge, I could tell the war was not over. No, the war, the war for my man hood, the war for my loins, the war for my penis, my penis and testicles, had just begun.

Then I awoke. George, with his big brown and yellow eyes, was right there, smiling his smile of victory. I returned that smile, even gave him a little wink, or blink I guess is more appropriate since I have yet to attain the ability to wink. Then they approached with impending clairvoyance again for there she was, there they were. It was feeding time. Yes, time to mingle once again with the enemy, with the foe I had once saw as my friend. War, so it seems, has such an effect on men.

That night I finally figured out what the reason was for the milk filled skin jugs, why they existed, and from that point on I sucked on them harder then ever before when I drank, knowing deep down they’re true purpose. They may seem innocent enough with their lactating ways, giving me the nutrients I needed to live and grow healthy, but what was the point of all this growing up and becoming healthy when what I was growing up to be was going to be taken away just as soon as they got sizable and, if I do say so myself, quite magnificent.

The dreams kept up and they became more and more terrifying with each night for the glands grew bigger and the missiles grew longer, the red darker, the fire hotter. George was still showing up every night but showing up later and later, and his fight was becoming weaker and weaker. He was winning but his breathing got heavier and the glands had over taken him several times, nearly taking me in their traps, but he dove in to save me at the last minute. It was only a matter of time till the missiles were going to over take me entirely.

It wasn’t George’s fault either; I knew he was doing the best he could. He was fighting and getting cut and turned over night in and night out, breathless by the morning. No it wasn’t his fault, it was nobody’s fault but my own. It was my own weakness, my own tiny hands, tiny fingers, flawless and beautiful yes, perfectly groomed and as cute as can be, yes, all true, I can’t say enough about the aesthetics of my hands, their character and balance in tone and skin composure, but stability wise, strength wise, they’re, sad to say, completely worthless. They still flail helplessly, still fall away from the goal, like getting stuck in my shirtsleeve when getting dressed and nothing can be done until the woman fixes it and pulls my hands through. Just another embarrassing episode from my life I guess you could say and just another weakness those glands will exploit till I learn to squeeze them, grab them and teach them a lesson on whose boss, on who’s in charge of my manhood. It was going to be rough, the war was still waging, but it would end soon for sure, and the loser was bound to be me unless I took heed and made some changes.

I decided to start an exercise regiment. I would still do the obvious and watchful grabbing and handling of random objects my hands happen to take hold of, but I also put in some private exercises that would build more strength, therefore allowing for further motor skills. Before going to sleep every night and while feeding I practiced forming fists, squeezing anything and everything. At times it was nothing but air, other times it was the sheets around me, and unfortunately, sometimes it was George’s ears. I apologized and he understood it was for the best, for the sooner I attained the skills of grabbing objects and holding them, the sooner his fighting would cease and he could rest at night.

Yes, he understood, for we both, yes we both missed those calm nights so much, so very much. That open field would still be there when this was all over, I told him, and we’d both be there together, relaxing under the yellow globe, surrounded by all those fragrance filled rockets once again.

The next several days were very tiresome, very trying, grueling even. The exercises seemed to be of no use for even as I tried and tried to reach for objects within a reasonable distance, I grabbed with no luck. I was beginning to think that perhaps the exercises were just another form of denial that I put myself through with the lie that I’d be able to stop the mammaries from stealing away my man hood. Depression fixed its black veil over me and I went into a fit of appetite lose, even for the milk, even for the pink points. It all meant the same to me, failure.

I hated them so much, but loved them equally as much, an acceptance I could hardly bear. Could I really be so infatuated with those big mounds, menacing and repugnant, yet so supple and beautiful at the same time?

I could feel the long-term effects of this battle already setting in for the rest of my life. I couldn’t even suck on them with the intensity that I had once been so proud of. The woman above them even noticed with her worried eyes, lashes flashing up and down and brows curling with insurmountable intrigue, yet I had no answer for her. Once again I find myself caught in the web of denial, deceiving even myself, for I knew the answer to my loss of enthusiasm and grit as much as I knew the smell of my own excess. If only I could sleep off the depression, but to sleep is to face the battle I’m so afraid of facing. Soon I would lose, soon it would be over.

They got me. They finally touched me. The burning of the missiles was ferocious, but almost equally sensual. It ached but pleased as well. My hopes for insomnia had fallen through after a hearty meal of mammary milk and I passed out cold before realizing I was entering those supple bodies’ playground—battleground—I should say.

It started the same as they always do. Calm and placid, sounds of breeze and water movement, slow but crashing, with the witnessing wild whistling in return. I even allowed myself to believe that I had actually won, that the war was behind us and all the soldiers had returned home to their wives and children; to their jobs and bosses and taxed wages. I was happy in my field and the idea that my limbs were still useless escaped me. I looked and looked above to the blue.

Then came the rumble. The screech of fire breathing entities, identical twins, same shape and size, each charging with an intensity only the kilns of their bearer could ever know. I could smell the dirt and flame of the field and wood that they left in their path, destruction was their only goal. Oh how I loathed those forms, loathed and feared and longed for with such passion that my own skin seemed to turn red with rainbow flame.

I hated myself as I lay there listening and smelling and feeling their advance, yearning for them to finally overtake me, to let the fight end for defeat and acceptance had to be better than all this turmoil. Let it all end. I dreamed for it to be over while still dreaming of their attack. They were only a few yards away. I could smell their closeness and the shards of grass and bark and silver earth were landing on and around me, pelting my soft pink turned red skin. I had once been a peach, but the bruises turned me ripe and red. Flame. I wanted to burst and let the advance over take me, let them smell me as I could smell them, taste me as I had tasted them so many times in the past and, god willing, would taste again and again in the future.

Then there was a flash. The yellow globe seemed to have blown up. The rockets seemed to have finally given up on trying to pull the white pillows to them and instead shot out in a brown and green burst of light to attack and caress that blue above. Everything that was always meant to touch, finally, in a mixture of fire and grass, gold and blue and red and purple, primary and secondary, all together explosion, touched. Not just touched, but grabbed and held and sparked emotion and stardust all over the field.

My blood stirred and my body flowed, my manhood moved and reached as much as my arms reached; out and out and out to that magical fancy of color that was exploding all around me. My eyes could see them on me, those towering forms of majestic milk and taste, right there before me, on me, holding me and bleeding me dry, cleansing me with their wet fire.

I woke up wet.

I woke up wet and without breath, heart pounding in my head and in my loins, still unsure of the night’s occurrences. It was all so real and full in my head still. I could feel the saturation around me and my make shift white cloth that covered my manhood was now a heavy mass instead of the airy fluff that it usually was. Not only that, but there was something new altogether on my body I had never seen before, which now, was all too obvious in it’s evidence of the attack. There, on my stomach, just inches above the mark, was the scar of last night’s affair. A hole, a burned out hole, just shy of the goal, my manhood, was now staring me in the face. Yes, last night was real, the wetness was real, the burn was real, the hole was real, the attack and the evidence and passion and fire were all real.

Flustered, nervous, unaware, I went for George, but he was just out of reach. Last night’s events must have sent him away from the comfort of the pillow, which explained why he didn’t make an appearance in the dream, he was too far to realize I was in need. Yet his ear was almost touching me. If only I could grab a hold. If only I could function my hands and arms, use the strength of that which just wet everything, wet me enough to wake, I could then grab him and pull him to me. I could let him know I was safe.

I stared quietly before closing my eyes. I thought of the dream, of the burn, of the cold stain I would now carry with me forever. I thought about it all, and from my side, my arm raised. My arm raised and extended out to George’s ear. Yes!

My fingers were touching his brown fur. I was petting his ear, but this was no time for petting, no this was time for recovery, for accomplishment. I thought about the exercises, the hours spent flexing and squeezing ardent air through my precious fingers. I thought about it all and I squeezed. I squeezed with all my might, with all my saturated manhood, and I, in a magic leap over an asteroid canyon, grabbed a hold of George’s ear. I grabbed him and pulled him to me. Once again, he was at my side. Now, there was just one final bit of business to attend to.

It was feeding time. I was hungry. Hungry for a great many things, one of them being milk, one of them being victory. I quenched the first need as I sucked down the vitamins, all the vitamins the woman was willing to give me. One side, then the next, I took it all in. I was going to need it all. I was so aggressive I spilled it all over my front side, but I kept at it, allowing the strength to return to my aching body from the previous night’s dealings. I was exhausted from the sucking, from the feeding, and she could tell. She could see it in my flickering eyes as they looked up to her with envy and love and hate. It was now or never.

I pulled off of the white tipped missile and just as she was about to put the dry cloth over top of them I realized every ounce of courage, of pride, of need, of love, of vengeance and desire and passion, as it overtook me. Both of my arms rose with congruent steadiness and with both open hands, I slapped the mounds from the outside, closed my eyes, and squeezed them together as I clutched the skin between my fingers.

Flashes of memory, of light and dark, of color and gray, of water and air, explosions of expressions I didn’t know, raced under my eyelids as the woman above let out an embarrassed scream, tinged with fear and pain, but acceptance and want. An eternity of this feast passed over my vision before I lost all my strength and my arms and fingers and hands fell limp to my side, and I fell asleep with my face against the still moist white tips.

That night I dreamed again. I was in the field. I was lying on my back facing the blue above. The peace was everywhere. George was there too. He was lying by my side, barking and jumping after unseen animals that buzzed and whizzed with a pleasure all there own. The yellow globe burned gold and the breeze flipped over my hair, touching my insides with it’s coolness. Then there was that smell, that unmistakable smell, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fear. The odor was no longer of exploding muskets, but of an enchanting hearth. Warming flowers to fragrance and yeast to grow. It was a loving and soft smell that flowed out over the field and over me. They approached, softly and whimsically, not charging. Both were flowing with taste and softness. My burned hole, my wound of lust and passion, ached with pleasure when they laid their pleasant peach bodies next to mine. The soft points tickled my skin like the wind and I smiled with my eyes closed and my mouth open, allowing for the gold and white to wash me away.