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Message-ID: <29999asstr$988045802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
Reply-To: FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
Subject: {ASSM} "Replacing the 'Follies'" (MM+) by Father Ignatius
Date: Mon, 23 Apr 2001 13:10:02 -0400
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Replacing the 'Follies' (MM+)

An "Iron Writer" Story

(c)Father Ignatius, 2001
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html

-----

"Umfaa-an!" A reasonable approximation of Sonja Herholdt, South
Africa's answer to Barbra Streisand, lip-synched into a dead mike.

"Umfaa-an!" The happy, swaying, bright-eyed, clapping-in-time
audience picked up the echo part.

"Umfaan!  Bayete umfaan!"  As the music faded, 'Sonja' shimmied,
bumped and ground off stage.  Her shiny, blue lizard-skin evening
gown glittering in the spotlight and the lights swung round by the
mirror ball.  The crashing applause of a stand-up ovation burst
into the tiny backstage area where the rest of "les girls" were
clustered, squeaking with excitement.  They clattered onto the
stage for the last time for curtain calls as the bouquets started
coming over the footlights.

* * *

Cape Town, South Africa, prides itself on being the gay capital of
the Southern Hemisphere.  So does Sydney, Australia.  I have no
idea where the diamante crown truly belongs but it is certain that
a lot of effort goes into attracting the lavender-pink dollar in
both these cities.  As the ecstatic audience cheered the curtain
down on the farewell performance of the Brunswick Follies, the
question of what to replace them with became more urgent than
ever.

Cape Town and Sydney have in common that each is a large, urban
enclave with a protecting shawl of mountains standing between
their permissive decadence and a traditionally gay-hostile
hinterland. Anyone who has seen "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert"
will have some idea of how many closets remain in well-fortified
use between Katoomba and Alice Springs.  Well, it takes as much
guts to parade in drag around South Africa's small Platteland
towns as it does to parade around Coober Pedy.  And yet, the
Brunswick Follies were going on a tour to take gay drag karaoke to
the burghers of Beaufort West and points north.  They might very
well never appear live, or even alive, ever again.

Call it misguided, call it brave, call it foolhardy, but they were
going and the Brunswick Tavern, Cape Town's leading gay bar,
needed an act to follow them and we didn't have one.  We were
desperate enough to moot reviving the Wet Underpants Contest but
that had been done to death -- Sam always won, anyway and, by and
large, the contestants didn't like parading the shrinkage effect
of cold water.

* * *

The lights came up and there was a rush on the bar led by the
hunky bear, Felix.  He placed his square, chunky hands on the bar
and built personal space with his massive, hairy forearms.  No-one
argued with him but plenty jostled to stand near to him and gape
longingly at his heavy, deeply-tanned musculature, lovingly honed
at Graaff's Pool, the men-only nude sunbathing facility that is
Cape Town's answer to Muscle Beach.

"Hi, Craig.  Bitterly cold Castle, no ice."

"Here you go, Felix.  Enjoy the show?"

"Yep.  Got a date with 'Sonja' after."  He nodded towards the
backstage area where 'Sonja' had disrobed hastily to reveal a
bristly chest.  In private life, 'Sonja' was known as Lectra,
short for Electrolux -- 'cause (wait for it) "nothing sucks like
Electrolux" (Can I have a punch-line "ba-doomp" on the drums now,
please? Thank you. You've been a wonderful audience).

"Shit," she said, "Give me a hand with my cock.  It's killing me."

"Ooooh, I'll give you a hand any time you like."

"Can it, you slag, I'm in agony.  I've got a date after" -- and
she paused to flutter at Felix -- "and I'm afraid I'm ruined for
it."

These girls -- girls, guys, whichever -- are amazingly devoted to
their art.  By the time they've finished strapping their dicks
away they can wear dresses in such a way that you simply can't
tell that they're packing.  To tell you the truth, I've never
yearned to know the ghastly, intimate details.  All I know is that
it's an art and a science and that it takes a long time, great
teamwork and a certain amount of giggling and slapping.

"Well," said petite, pretty Geoff (known professionally as "Nelson
Womandela"), "let's see what's gone wrong then. Oooooh, I see your
little problem!"

"Not right now with the 'little', okay, bitch?  _Help_ me!"

"Hoity-toity!  Nothing for it but to..."

And there was a rending, tearing hospital sound of large pieces of
adhesive tape being callously yanked off.  Lectra achieved a high,
soaring, non-lip-synched B-flat worthy of Onse Mimi Coertse, South
Africa's answer to Dame Joan Sutherland, Herself.

"Owww, you _bitch_!  I'm _ruined_!"  There was a slap like a
pistol shot and Geoff burst floods of tears.  Pure routine. Felix
turned back to me.

"What are you going to put on after the Follies invade the Great
Karoo?" he asked.

"That's just the problem.  We don't know,  We're desperate for
inspiration.  Got any ideas?"

"Well, yes I have, actually.  I was just up in Johannesburg for
the Gay Pride Parade -- you saw our effigy of Bob-the-Gob?"

Well, yes.  President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe had recently gone
on record as saying that there are no gays in Zimbabwe.  He had
also said some nasty things about what it means to be gay. The gay
community, when it had caught its breath, did not know whether to
laugh or cry.  When it came to Jo'burg's annual Gay Pride Parade,
however, they knew _exactly_ what to do. President Bob-the-Gob
Mugabe appeared, several stories high, in cruel effigy and
riotous, over-the-top drag in Zimbabwe's national colours.

"Well, anyway," Felix continued, "There was this other
mud-wrestling float near us on the parade. It had these two
incredibly buff guys on it wrestling all comers, so to speak.  It
was quite an act. Something to do with sexual forfeit for the
losers.  I wouldn't have minded being beaten by either of them but
they got arrested and taken out of the parade before I could get
in the queue."

"Hmmmm.  I never heard of gay male mud-wrestlers before."

"Well they're out there.  Get hold of the parade organisers
through the "Out in Africa" web site and see if you can find
them."

"Felix, you're a life saver.  Get you a drink?"

"Thanks, Craig.  Bitterly-cold Castle, no ice."

* * *

Nimrod and Bamm-Bamm came straight down to the Brunswick Tavern
when they got off the 'plane at Cape Town International and spent
lunch-time promoting their act to a slavering bunch of regulars.
Physically enormous to start with, they were hugely muscled.  They
arrived, dressed identically in dark blue, skin-tight muscle-Ts,
very snug khaki slacks and trainers.  They both had Swedish-blond
hair, with a fan of extensions falling below their shoulders, and
startlingly blue contacts.  People noticed them.

They climbed, their bulging shoulders held sideways, up the
narrow, curving staircase from the street entrance to the
first-floor bar and entered, hand-in-hand.  They seemed to take up
an awful lot of the room.  They introduced themselves to me with
two bone-grinding handshakes and asked if they could "work the
room".

"Knock yourselves out," I said, bemused.  I wondered what would
happen.

"Okay, who's special here?  That knows everyone?  Everyone knows
him? Special member of the community?  Gossipy?"

"Well, how about Sam over there?  That cutie with the curly brown
hair and the green contacts, sitting over from the blond twink.
That's Sam, our reigning Wet Underpants champion."

"Is he now?  Let's go over and meet him."

They climbed down from their bar-stools, while the whole room
ogled their glutes wistfully, and marched -- bad-cop, bad-cop --
on over to Sam and Paul's table with their beer glasses looking
tiny in their enormous farm-labourer hands.

Sam was sitting on the banquette that runs round the room under
the windows.  Nimrod and Bamm-Bamm bore down on him, every eye in
the room rivetted on them, and plumped themselves down either side
of Sam.  He looked half-terrified and half delighted.  Nimrod sat
on his left and put his huge hand down high up Sam's left thigh.
At the same time, with practised choreography, Bamm-Bamm sat on
Sam's right and put _his_ huge hand down high up Sam's right
thigh.  The wrestlers were suddenly finger-tip to finger-tip over
Sam's crutch.  They pressed down hard on his legs, squeezing, so
everyone could be appreciative of their enormous triceps and
forearms.

"Hi, Sam," said Nimrod, "I'm Nimrod."

"And I'm Bamm-Bamm."

"H-h-h-hi."

"We understand that you're the Wet Underpants champion of Cape
Town."

"And we're very interested in getting to know you better."

"Are you coming to our show tonight?"

"Do you know how it works?"

Their tones dropped confidentially.  I realised that (a.) I was
straining to catch their every every word, (b.) that everyone else
was, too, and (c.) that we could hear exactly what they were
saying.  I was obviously dealing with a pair of terrific showmen.
Real pros.

"Hey, I can see why you're the Wet Underpants champ.  Its getting
really constricted in there," said Nimrod.

So it was.  Along with the room at large I noticed the huge bulge
sprouting in Sam's trousers.

"How flattering," said Bamm-Bamm and lowered his mouth onto Sam's
and Sam got a long, wet sticky one while Paul looked desolate and
transfixed at the same time.  He swallowed nervously.  Or
lustfully.  Or both.

"Don't worry," said Nimrod, picking up on it straight away.  he
stood up, bent over Paul and slipped a hand down into his shirt.
Paul gasped and looked up at him.  Nimrod took the chance of
kissing him too.  His mouth came down over Paul's like an octopus
on a sea-urchin.  Under Paul's sheer shirt, I could see him
grabbing and twisting at Paul's nipple-ring.  Paul writhed around,
whimpering.  It must have hurt like hell but, when Nimrod finally
came up for air again, Paul also had an erection.

"Now," said Bamm-Bamm, "this is how our act works..."

* * *

"Now," I said, "this is how their act works..."

Dinner-jacketed and gripping the handle of the spray on the end of
the hose, I stood under a purple strobe by the special
mud-wrestling ring.  The place was packed with over-excited,
glittery-eyed gays.  Sam's gossip network must have been ringing
off the hook all afternoon and all the way from Simon's Town to
Stellenbosch.

"Firstly, though, are you bitches wide awake and paying
attention?"

I pressed the trigger on the spray and cold water jetted into the
shrieking front rows.

"Now, as you can see, we have what is basically an under-size
boxing ring sitting in an enormous, water-tight cat-box, railed
down from Jo'burg for your delectation completely without regard
to expense by your profligate management."

The audience cat-called mockingly.

"Hush, bitches.  This is serious.  I'm living on my tips here --
like you slags ever tip -- and that boy of mine is going to get
such a fat smack when I find him..."

Good-natured laughter and, I was pleased to see, steady business
at the bar.

"The role of the kitty litter will be played, in tonight's
stud-studded production, by dry powdered Malmesbury clay, _van die
hartland van die Swartland, ek se_.  It makes thick, gooky,
horrible mud which we shall start making as soon as our combatants
start combating."

"Shut up and bring on the meat!" called a heckler.

"Meat!  Meat!  Meat!" chanted the crowd.  I was pleased to
estimate how much drink they had bought to get into the party
spirit.

"Starting from dry clay, I shall spray the combatants continually
from the moment the match starts.  It's over when the cat-box
overflows or when someone yields to avoid drowning."

Laughter.

"This is no joke.  That's really how it works.  Now, the
interesting part is the prizes..."

Sudden hush.  The word was out on that score.

"In tonight's match, there can be only one winner and one loser.
Unless someone drowns.  Now the winner...  the winner gets to be
The Great Bull Elephant for the evening.  That means he gets to
screw any of you cows that he likes, for as long as he can get it
up."

I paused.  There was swallowing, eye contact avoidance, shuffling,
squirming and coughing.  But no-one said anything.

"So, if anyone's got a problem with that, they better leave now.
Good night to you, and thanks for coming."

No-one moved while the atmosphere grew thick with lust.

"Okay, sports fans, thank you for your loyalty."

Some grudging laughter.

"Now, the loser...  The loser gets to be The Great Cow Elephant
for the evening and...  wait for it... and any one of you bulls in
the room gets to screw him for as long as you can get it up."

Sighs.  Release of tension.  A low, rumbling mutter, growing into
a howl, rhythmic beating on the seats.  "Meat!  Meat!  Meat!"

"Now, it won't have escaped the notice of the swifter-minded
amongst you..."

Cries of "Ooooh!" and "Snotty slag!"

"...the swifter-minded, as I say, amongst you that we might have
paused to consider that one or both of our combatants might be
playing to lose."

Appreciative laughter.

"However, your diligent management has been pursuing enquiries
into the match history of our two combatants and we have
discovered something rather interesting..."

Expectant hush, waiting for the punch-line.

"Each of our two gladiators has won and lost exactly half the
matches!"

Screams of laughter, round of applause.

"So, confident that we are in the hands of a couple real pros, I
give you... NIMROD and BAMM-BAMM!"

They got a standing ovation, shrill whistles of applause and a
chorus of "Oooooh!" noises as they strode out from the backstage
area, glistening with posing oil.  They had been lifting weights
round the back and they were fully pumped, to the wild
appreciation of the audience.  They wore matching black boots and
matching muscle-shorts in broad, vertical rainbow stripes.  They
shorts were closed with heavy laces criss-crossing down their
abdomens from waist deep down to bulging pubis.  Bodybuilder
style, they did a quick pose-down, to the accompaniment of
wolf-whistling and groupie shrieking.  As the heavy-beat music
came up, they started working the room, moving up the aisles,
hugging, kissing and posing.  Folding money got stuffed into their
waistbands and threaded into the laces, with much oops-sorry
unnecessary fingering of crotches.

They were quick to realise that the excitement was peaking and
came over to me.

"Grab the bucks, doll.  Quickly,"  whispered Nimrod.  They stood
in front of me, model-style, hands behind heads, gyrating their
pelvises and giving the grateful punters a good look at their
broad backs, their thick, round glutes and their heavily-muscled
legs.  Embarrassed, I grabbed all the notes from their waists and
crotches and stuffed it into my inside jacket pocket.

"Thank you, sweetie," said Nimrod, trailing his forefinger over my
lips.  "I'll be sure and see you later."  He gave me a meaningful
look and then climbed into the ring where Bamm-Bamm was waiting
for him.

"Right, gentlemen, I am starting my hose.  There are no rounds,
it's a fight to a finish and, if this is a clean fight then I, for
one, will be desperately disappointed."

And I struck the bell.  Nimrod leaped at Bamm-Bamm who nimbly
rolled back, catching Nimrod in the waist with his feet.  A thick
cloud of black Malmesbury clay dust billowed out as he fell.  I
flicked my hose at the dust to lay it.

A flex of Bamm-Bamm's mighty thighs and Nimrod was thrown,
starfished, high in the air.  He nearly cleared the ropes and his
head was whipped back towards the floor as his legs caught on the
top rope. Cat-like, he twisted and fell on his arms, giving the
viewing public a good show of his triceps and pectorals in action.
Flexing his six-pack, he rolled back, sprang up and did a running
jump at Bamm-Bamm who was rising casually to his feet.  He was
standing in the first puddle that was turning into mud when Nimrod
hit and they both went down in a splattering crash, raising more
dust.  I plied my hose vigorously, watching sun-tanned skin appear
as I sprayed the mud off the skin flexing over those enormous
muscles.

It quickly became apparent that we were watching an
expertly-choreographed show that was designed to show of
gladiatorial musculature.  No-one minded a bit.  It was
nevertheless a real contest that became harder and harder as I
continued to ply the spray.  The mud deepened, footing became
treacherous and the two combatants were genuinely tiring.
Eventually, the point came where Nimrod and Bamm-Bamm, gooky black
swamp-monsters, were standing, heads lowered, facing each other,
their huge chests rising and falling as they gasped for breath in
calf-deep mud. The crowd was shrieking, "Do it!  Do it!", the
music was pumping and I was wondering when the cops were going to
arrive when Nimrod darted forward and daringly scissored Bamm-Bamm
down on top of him.  As Bamm-Bamm fell face forward, Nimrod
gripped him and rolled and Bamm-Bamm's head went under.  Nimrod
grabbed a fistful of muddy blond extensions and held him under.
They were locked and, after about ten seconds of writhing,
Bamm-Bamm's arms thrashed the surface of the water three times in
surrender.  I noticed that they both had erections straining at
their laced crotches.

The crowd went wild.  Nimrod, the Great Bull-Elephant, went wild.
Fingers still twined in Bamm-Bamm's hair, he dragged him upright,
roaring in triumph.  He lifted him over the ropes, splattering mud
everywhere while the crowd scattered.  With his free hand, he
reached round to Bamm-Bamm's belly and tugged open the knot at his
laced waist.  Roughly, he wrenched the lace out from the eye-holes
in the muscle-shorts and used it to bind Bamm-Bamm's wrists round
the corner-post of the boxing ring, under the lowest rope.  The
great Cow-Elephant was tethered for the night, ready for servicing
by the herd of bulls.

Releasing his partner's hair, Nimrod pressed his bulging crotch
against his partner's buttocks, and ground his hips aggressively.
His hand went round to the front of the loosened waistband and
down into Bamm-Bamm's crotch and grabbed at his exposed erection.
His elbow rose and fell as he roughly stroked his tethered partner
to a full erection before wrenching the shorts down to ankle
level. The clean, tanned skin of Bamm-Bamm's waist stood out
starkly against the mud-caked back and thighs. Ululations of
admiration came from the crowd as the released erection popped
out.  Bamm-Bamm struggled to kick himself out of the shorts, the
laces of his boots catching on the stretchy fabric.  He kicked
free, and stood waiting.

"Who's the first bull for the Great Cow-Elephant?" screamed
Nimrod, smacking his tethered partner's big, heavy,
strongly-curved buttock.

"Me!" said Andy, the Wet Underpants champion.  He was standing
there, not believing his eyes or his luck.  He elbowed his way to
the front, dragged his T-short off, throwing it to the floor.  As
he started to pull at his belt, Nimrod turned about to face the
suddenly-gone-silent crowd.  He stood before them, his wide,
muscular shoulders thrown back, his deep, barrel chest still
heaving, and roared again in triumph. He inserted fingers between
his thighs, cupping his bulging crotch, and stroked himself while
staring at them.

"And who is going to be first for the Great Bull-Elephant?"

He undid his own knot and pulled his shorts roughly open.  His
erection sprang out at his admiring audience, who whistled
appreciatively.  By this stage, Andy had got naked and was
hardening up.  He moved round behind Bamm-Bamm, eyeing his
speculatively, and jumped as Nimrod said, "My first victim shall
be.... ANDY!"

"But..." said Andy, "I'm going to fuck Bamm-Bamm..."

He had his hands on Bamm-Bamm's butt, cock resting in the cleft
between his buttocks.

"Sure you are, kid," said Nimrod, coming up behind him and
pinioning him with wrestler's arms.  "And, as you butt-fuck him,
I'm going to butt-fuck you.  And by the time we're done, I expect
to see a queue."

The crowd's expectations were exceeded and they erupted with
applause.  Yep, we were dealing with a pair of real pros here, I
thought, as I rushed to join the queue.

* * *

"The question now arises," I said a week later, "of finding an act
to replace these guys."

"I have an idea about that," said Felix.  "How about a
weight-lifting competition?"

"Oh, get real, Felix.  Not everyone's a gym-bunny like you."

"It's not what you think.  Everyone who starts out with a cock and
balls is qualified to participate.  You use your organs to lift
the weights. There's this clamp around the base of your prong,
see..."


-----
ENDS


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

The character in this story who is called "Felix" is a
tip-of-the-hat to Felix Lance Falkon. He writes rugged MM stories
well, wittily and wisely.  Thanks, Felix.  I am glad to say that I
owe everything I know about "weight-lifting contests and extreme
self-applied genital tortures" entirely to Felix's story "Weight
Lifting". You may get a list of his stories, and the stories
themselves, by e-mailing requests to him at falkon@netaxs.com

I owe the names "Nimrod" and "Bamm-Bamm" (who could make these
things up?) to reading Sam Fussell's fascinating autobiography
"Muscle: Confessions of an Unlikely Bodybuilder". The original
Nimrod, you may be delighted to hear, was a bodybuilder who had an
interesting affiliation to the University of Florida.  He spent
four rent-free years there, sleeping his way round the women's
dorms.  His secret?  Peroxide (for the skin), contacts and
extensions. It's a great book and probably nothing like what you
expect it to be.

-----

Thank you for reading me.  I would be pleased to hear from
you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not
you liked my story, and why.

The Stories of Father Ignatius are to be found at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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