Least I Still Have My Balls

AT LEAST I STILL HAVE MY BALLS

Written by Vandemonium1 and edited by CreativityTakesCourage

Hi folks. Still alive, still writing, still really, really busy and still living the dream with my beautiful partner.

If you didn't like my 'Frustration' you're unlikely to enjoy this one. I apologise in advance for the cheap twist at the end.

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"But at least I still have my balls, Your Honor."

I heard my lawyer emit a low hiss and out of the corner of my eye saw his glare directed at me. I thought a guy on an hourly rate as huge as his would have a little more self-control than that. He'd warned, or rather, begged me to stop saying that phrase, citing that we risked losing public sympathy. Public sympathy, apparently, sways judges into handing out shorter sentences.

But I knew something that my overpriced mouthpiece didn't.

From my handcuffed spot in the dock, I had a better view of the judge than him. I'd seen the quickly hidden smile the first time I'd used the phrase. The smile and the automatic glance at the victim of my assault, sitting glowering at me from his seat at his lawyer's table. I guess the judge didn't like the fucker either.

"Can I have another word with my client please, Your Honor?"

"I doubt it will do much good, Mr. Perkins. Your last three 'words' with him certainly haven't."

This time, the judge openly grinned at me while my lawyer came over and whispered. I didn't like the guy. I was down-to-earth, he was a snooty prick. I'm a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, he's a condescending shit. Given a choice, I wouldn't have hired him, but the choice wasn't mine. He was there courtesy of my best friend, Dave.

Was Dave stupidly wealthy with a fortune to squander on my hopeless defense? No. Dave was in the same comfortable but not extravagant lifestyle that I was, or should I say, used to be, until I was locked up eight months ago. No, my overpriced, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth, my-daughter's-name-is-Porsche-and-rides-a-horse, representative was being paid for by an over-subscribed GoFundMe account organized by Dave. Seems a lot of people don't like the guy I'd attacked either.

When the news of the wealth of my GFM account hit the media, my victim started his own, to great fanfare. That backfired on him something chronic. It seemed that because of what he did to provoke my assault, he wasn't very popular. I, on the other hand, was. If you believe all the fan-mail I was receiving. And, I had my balls.

After begging me once again not to use the provocative phrase, my guy retreated to his table and we both faced the judge again.

"Mr. Freeland, your representative is right, your victim deserves more sympathy and respect than you're giving him."

Once again, the glitter in his eye, that only I could see, due to the closeness and angle, belied the literal meaning of his words.

"I'm terribly sorry, Your Honor, I thought I was just stating the facts. I own a set of testicles. The guy I caught having sex with my soon-to-be-ex-wife does not. Unless he keeps them in a box that is."

This time the look the judge immediately gave me told me I was going too far but it quickly softened again. I decided to shut the fuck up.

"Now, Mr. Freeland, as I was saying, you have pleaded guilty to assault occasioning actual bodily harm which carries a maximum sentence of eight years in prison, no, no, no, please don't repeat what you said last time."

We both glanced at the prosecution table where the asshole just went red with embarrassment or rage, again.

"Thank you, Mr Freeland. Now, your lawyer has argued that at the time of the assault you were suffering from a temporary insanity and cannot be held responsible for your actions. The psychiatric assessment the court ordered seems to indicate that you're as sane as the next man, but as the psychiatrist points out, temporary insanity is a... ", at this point the judge consulted his notes, "Stimulus driven autonomic phenomenon."

I remained silent, for once heeding my lawyer's advice only to answer questions.

"We've heard the victim impact statement, so before I sentence you, Mr. Freeland, can you look me in the eye and tell me your story again please."

"Certainly, Your Honor, or what I remember of it anyway."

I paused and looked out at the gallery where my wife was seated. She lowered her eyes. She'd been absent from the court when the story was told last time, hoping to save embarrassment, I suppose. She must have had no idea the story would be repeated today.

She must be in a dilemma, I thought. Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. Should she run away again or stay? Stay to show me how supportive she was, in the hopes I'd forgive her and take her back. Fat fucking chance. She would have to face alone the humiliation and public shame of being caught cheating in the full glare of the public spotlight.

"My wife, some friends, and I were having a pleasant evening in a bar, when Ball-less over there, sorry,

the so-called victim

, just waltzed up to my wife and asked her to dance. Because he didn't follow the proper etiquette by asking me if I minded, I wasn't happy about it but didn't make a big deal of it. She had two or three dances with the asshole then came back to the table and I thought everything was good. That was until she disappeared a little later. It turns out she'd gone off with the guy she'd danced with."

I stopped to calm myself. Even after all this time, the memory of my wife's devastating betrayal still made me wild. I guess it's true what one of the shrinks said about where there is great pain there is great anger. He described anger as a 'secondhand emotion' saying it never happens in isolation. Guess, if nothing else, I learned something new during my incarceration.

"Go on please, Mr. Freeland."

"Well, I figured he'd take her straight back to his place and a few people knew where he lived, so I went straight around there. Sure enough, his big flash car was parked in the garage. He and my slu..., sorry,

wife

, must have been in a hurry. Not only had they left the garage door open but the internal door into the house was unlocked as well. I didn't have to break in, Your Honor, just walk in."

"There was certainly no mention in the police report of damage, Mr. Freeland."

"You'll have to forgive me, Your Honor, but my memory gets increasingly hazy from this point. I do remember getting angrier and angrier as I walked through the house looking for them, and I vaguely recall reaching the base of a staircase and hearing grunting and groaning coming from what I assumed was one of the upstairs bedrooms. I'm sorry, but that's it. I don't remember anything after that until the police turned up. One minute I was at the bottom of the staircase and the next the police were there.

"I'm really not sure if the pictures I have in my head for that fifteen-minute period of time are real or what the police that interviewed me say must have happened."

I battled to maintain a baffled expression on my face while the judge looked at me lingeringly. A large part of my over-paid lawyer's argument, he really was very good at what he did, was that my confession that night was signed when I wasn't in a rational frame of mind. The police had erred and there were long stretches of time when my whereabouts in the jail were unaccounted for. My lawyer had sown the seed that I was being interviewed, or bullied, off recorder, and the police had used my mentally vulnerable state to implant a memory into my head, probably by repeating it multiple times. That memory then became reality for me, and I'd signed a confession to say that's what happened.

In truth, of course I remember what happened. Every detail.

From hearing the sounds of sex coming from the bedroom, walking up the stairs, following the sound to an open door, to seeing my wife on all fours, naked as the day she was born, being thrust into by the wife-stealing asshole I'd watched her dancing with.

I don't know if it was actual insanity, but something inside me snapped right there and then and I really don't think I should be blamed for my actions.

The rutting couple were totally unaware of my presence as I watched Shithead's balls bounce off my wife's pubic area. She was moaning and groaning and urging him on, dispelling any lingering hope that she was an unwilling participant in this private sex fest.

I could see his cock was bigger than mine and the thought that he was giving her something I never could made me wild with rage. I would always be a cuckold from this moment in time. I would never be as good as him from this moment in time... unless I evened the score a little.

I can't remember making a conscious decision to do or not to do what happened next. All I remember thinking is, 'I may always be a cuckold from here on in and my cock will never be as big as this one, but at least I'll still have my balls.'

I'd been the full back of my rugby team when I was younger and used to take the conversions. That meant I could put my foot exactly where it needed to be, with great force. That's exactly what I did now.

He reacted immediately.

His movements were comical. He reared forwards to get away from the defilation, pivoting my ex-wife forward until her head hit the headboard, stunning her. He then threw himself off her onto his back, legs splayed, all the while inhaling like he'd been holding his breath for a year.

The pain mustn't have hit fully yet, as his aghast gaze went from his ruined groin to my smug smile. The look of horror on his face would keep me smiling no matter how long I was locked away for.

"Yes, Mr. Freeland, your lawyer has made that abundantly plain. I believe the police station in question has already made some sweeping changes to protocol. That you were at the scene is not under doubt. Nor is the fact that you rendered first aid to the victim, which we've heard from three character witnesses is entirely in your nature. That your wife didn't see you actually assault the victim is fairly irrelevant. There is no doubt you did the damage that resulted in the victim's testicles having to be surgically removed. No, the only question is your state of mind at the time of the assault.

"Now, as I said, the statutory penalty is an eight-year custodial sentence, although I am allowed to take into account the provocation you were subjected to and your probable state of mind at the time. As for the deterrence value of the sentence, well, I doubt you'll ever be subjected to such an emotive, and, quite frankly, disgusting provocation ever again."

At these last words, the judge looked over at my wife in the gallery with a look of condemnation and revulsion. She shrank into her seat. It didn't escape my attention that she had none of her friends around her for support. From what I'd heard from inside my quiet, safe cell, she didn't have many friends left.

My case had made sustained headlines across the country, firstly because of the fame of my victim, then the human interest stories about how some celebrities use their fame to do very immoral things with few consequences, then thirdly because of the GoFundMe account. It seems that some of the husbands my wife's lover had previously humiliated were quite wealthy and the fund was well into six figures before the public started throwing in. My David vs Goliath story must have hit a chord because thousands upon thousands of people chucked in their spare change and more. The sheer size of the fund guaranteed its own publicity and kept me, and my wife's sins, in the forefront of the nation as well as our friend circle's mind. It became socially unacceptable to do anything but pillory her publicly.

I must have drifted off into reverie at this point because I suddenly became aware of the sounds of clapping in the courtroom. We all rose as the judge left the room and I looked around at the sight of people smiling at me and giving me the thumbs up. I turned to my lawyer.

"What the fuck?"

"He judged you temporarily insane, you lucky... person. He sentenced you to time served and three years probation. You're a free man."

We shook hands and he supervised me being processed out. The bailiff shook my hand, clapped me on the back and leaned down to whisper to me, "I'm sure glad you still have your balls, Man."

He showed the insanely grinning me and my dour lawyer the back door past the waiting media. Once outside, I thanked my lawyer, and we went our separate ways. Turning the corner at the courthouse steps, I looked toward the front entrance and saw a pack of reporters waiting inside, although I believe 'Clan' is the collective noun for hyenas. My change from prison orange must have thrown them a little as no one took any notice as I walked past.

I saw another little cluster of people gathered on the steps on the far side from me. Bugger me, my victim was giving his own press conference with his lawyer. They stood on the lower steps facing a half dozen cameras as I walked toward them.

As I came within earshot I heard the former local superstar, now publicly exposed as the scumbag he was, decrying, "I vow to appeal the judge's decision of today, it was a travesty of justice. What's more, I'll be launching a civil action to clear my name, having sex with married women isn't a crime."

First one, then more of the guys directing the cameras tapped their lens watchers to turn toward me. By the time I approached the former star along the same stair level he occupied, half of the cameras were pointed at me. The height and weight disparity--he had me by almost a foot and a hundred pounds--was accentuated as I stepped into his personal space. The fucker actually took a step back from me, tripped over his own feet, and fell on his ass. From the ground he quickly looked at the cameras and realized how weak that made him look. I gave him my best smile.

"Good luck with the appeal and the civil suit. Win or lose, I'll still have my balls."

He turned bright crimson red.

"Fuck you."

"And fuck you, Marc LaValliere."

EPILOGUE

The headlines in the local papers the next day were as funny as fuck. Variations on the theme of, 'Husband Keeps Balls', 'Ballsy Little Guy Stands Up To Disgraced Pro Footballer,' even, 'LaValliere Loses His Balls, Again.'

All the extra publicity ensured my GoFundMe balance just kept climbing and I retained the best civil lawyer I could, hoping he would limit the damage of my inevitable loss. I waited, one month, then two, but the expected service never came.

Finally, one night I found out why.

I was having a quiet beer at my local bar, on my way home, when a large guy stood behind me. I knew he was large because of the shadow he cast over me. He asked me not to turn around but explained that he worked with a men's support group who helped wronged husbands. Members of their group had had a quiet chat with LaValliere and he'd decided not to sue me. I didn't press the guy on why LaValliere came to that conclusion but if my new, shadowy friend's buddies were all the size he was, I can easily imagine. I offered to buy my new friend a beer, but he declined, so I just thanked him and respected his wishes to keep facing the bar until he made it to the door. It's nice to have friends, even if you don't know them.

I watched Marc's career with interest after that. He was quietly dropped from the major league he used to be the star of and ended up in a minor league. The media estimated his earnings were down more than 90%. He made the news just once more about a year later. It was one of those programs late at night that interview ex celebrities. A friend recorded it for me. Lavalliere was bleating on, in a noticeably higher pitched voice, about the unfairness of it all. With no balls, his testosterone levels plummeted. He shed muscle mass, drive, and aggression. This added to the ribbing he received every time he ran onto the field. He was given a two-match suspension when an opposition player allegedly whispered, "At least I still have my balls." The film cameras caught Marc turning and slapping the guy. If he'd punched him, it may have earned him some respect, but a bitch slap did his rep no favors.

Less than a month after that he was sacked after being caught taking testosterone supplements, banned as performance enhancers in professional sport. I lost track of him after that, hearing his name only when people talked about the perils of infidelity.

As for Linda, well, she fared little better. Her friends, family, and acquaintances quickly found that if they sided with her, they got smeared with the slime her notoriety earned her. They ran like hell, throwing shit at her as they fled.

The media left no detail out on how she'd betrayed me at the drop of a hat, or was it panties? She became the poster girl for bad wifehood. Bereft of support from family and friends and pilloried by media and passers-by in the street alike, she tried to flee from the district. My family lawyer, you guessed it, the best that money could buy, stopped her removing the kids from my proximity.

In desperation, she turned to alcohol for relief. When her children, home alone, rang me to report that she'd driven through the roll-a-door of the garage and they couldn't wake her up, I made sure the police beat me there. I left the garage door open so the media could photograph the play equipment in the bay next to where Linda normally parked her car. Her arrest for DUI was just the cherry on the top.

My lawyer quickly convinced a judge Linda wasn't a fit mother but wasn't cheeky enough to suggest I, as an admitted serious assaulter, be granted custody. Instead, the clever fellow suggested that my parents be given legal guardianship. With the ample allowance I could give them, thanks to my adoring fans, the judge quickly agreed. I just moved in with my parents.

Linda's drinking became worse, which didn't enamor her to the child services people supervising her visits with the children. She gave up and moved from the district after a few months. She writes them a card every birthday and Christmas; they couldn't care less.

My fame, or should I say infamy, saw me sought out by available women and I could have done all right if I was the type to be attracted by that sort of woman. I wasn't. I did eventually meet a lovely woman. Actually, that word doesn't do her justice. I'm in awe of her. She fled the Ukraine with two small children, her nieces. Her sister and brother-in-law having been killed early on in the conflict with Russia. Best of all, she loves me for me, not because of my fame, though she has been known to whisper to me late at night after playing a little hide-the-sausage, "I'm glad you still have your balls, Jim."

THE END

Congrats to GeorgeAnderson for stirring up more angst with a single story, February Sucks, than any other author here.

For those that don't know what a conversion is in the great game of Rugby Union, an animal's game played by gentlemen, read on. Similar to gridiron, a team scores when the ball is placed on the ground, under control, over the opposition's end line. A 'Try' is scored worth 5 points. The scoring team can earn an extra two points if they then 'convert' it. They bring the ball out as far as they like perpendicular to the try line from the point the ball went over the line and the best kicker in the team attempts to boot it between the posts. The ball is put on it's end, usually in a little pile of sand to keep it upright before the kick. The best kicker, usually the Full Back, takes the kick, sometimes curving the ball between the posts. Google it. The point of the conversion is to effectively make trys scored between the posts more valuable than ones scored in the corner as they're easier to convert.